


A Song About the Stains

by SomeDrunkSheep



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Backstory, Biting, Blood and Violence, Drama & Romance, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fix-It of Sorts, Insight, Jack's hat deserves a tag, M/M, Memories, Oral Sex, Period Typical Attitudes, Quite Rough Sex, Remembering one's self, Remembering through visions, Rimming, Romance, Sammy's fabulous cravats, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:07:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 109,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25903312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeDrunkSheep/pseuds/SomeDrunkSheep
Summary: When the buzz inside his head receded, memories of a life that he had once known flooded Sammy Lawrence, lifting the veil over his own mind. With those startling recollections, he started remembering his life before the voices had begun whispering in his ears, a time when he had lived with music and had fallen for a man that no one loved.But with the visions of that distant past came the realisation of the recurring reality and his terrible deeds, all crashing upon him and threatening the bit of newfound sanity that was scrambled inside his brain. Guided by a gut-crushing pull unlike any other he had experienced, the composer desperately hung onto it, trusted it to take him to his fortune.To find Norman.To set them free.
Relationships: Sammy Lawrence/Norman Polk, Sammy Lawrence/The Projectionist
Comments: 93
Kudos: 155





	1. Chapter One – People without Faces

**Author's Note:**

> Mornin’! Here is a little intrusion of mine in the Bendy and the Ink Machine universe that I hope you will enjoy. There should be more love shown to this pairing that I personally dig from all the possible angles. At first, perhaps Norman and Sammy don’t make much sense together, but once you take a closer look, they’re a match made in heaven. Or hell, you pick your choice. Anyway, the world is our sandbox, as they say, and this game and its characters, which aren’t fully sketched even in the official works, have so much potential. As I was curious about what will happen once I poke them with the proverbial stick, this little story happened. It’s already completed, so I will post it steadily.  
> The story contains some very graphic elements and scenes mingling with the plot, because I’m not one to write anything fully children-friendly. Oh, and there are lots of flashbacks, marked in italics. I would love to know what you think about everything. Thank you kindly for reading and I hope you’ll enjoy this work!  
> As per warnings, this is a story about two men remembering their relationship and how they fell in love, so you know what to expect. There will be the typical violence, slurs and some judgmental mentions from that period in time, to add to the characterisations. And, of course, as a disclaimer – I own nothing besides the plot. Well, obviously.  
> That being said, on we go with tonight’s show...

**A Song About the Stains**

**Chapter One – People without Faces**

_What a day, what a marvellous day in spring!_

_The weather was stifling in the ever humming New York City, the sun high in the sky. It was far too hot for the season, though there was no surprise in that. The temperatures were always too high in the massively populated city, everyone knew that. It was all the rage to be in the middle of the madness, so people tended to ignore the less than stellar conditions in favour of the promise of a better life._

_The streets were bustling with people rushing, around and about, living their hurried little lives in the grand metropolis. The terrible World War was way behind them, but the economy didn’t seem to be marching up, not after the stocks had collapsed at the end of 1929. The Roaring Twenties had passed away, all their splendour turned into a mad memory gone and buried, and the mid ‘30s were in full blast everywhere, with the hope of good fortune and wealth. Or at least, an end to the Great Depression. Times were hard for the working class, whereas those who managed to maintain their riches still shovelled their fortunes around or were eaten up by the ambitious._

_The sort of moment to be alive, when anything could happen._

_Just like everyone else, a young man was rushing through the crowded streets, running through the traffic and crowds to get to work. The lad had a long and lean frame, with wavy honey locks and radiant hazel eyes, looking like a fountain’s golden boy in that midday sun._

_His name was Samuel Lawrence, a youthful, brilliant musician and composer, having already been awarded quite a few prestigious awards and gaining a lot of recognition from fellow artists and the wide audience alike. He happened to be the Head of the Music Department at the renowned Joey Drew Studio, despite his rather tender age. He was very talented, indeed, and even if his high position had come as a surprise to everyone, as he had practically landed there straight from the Conservatory, he would be about the last one to complain. Pay was more than decent and he got to conduct, compose and play various instruments, always honing his skills and becoming better at his art._

_There had been many who had wanted his post, but he had been chosen, for reasons he was fairly certain that pertained solely to his aptitudes. This fellow was enamoured with the pride he felt whenever he was entering the studio, and he loved the job that allowed him to create._

_He worked his arse off daily, dealing with tight deadlines. But he was in full power, so eager to prove himself that he ignored the wear and tear his body was feeling late at night, when he laid himself to sleep and hoped, for once, to wake up refreshed and not just as drained as the day before._

_That never happened._

_Yet, he couldn’t stop. Not yet, not ever, perhaps. He pushed himself as much as he could and did his part, did everything that he could to prove his capability to endure. It was a tough industry, after all, filled with jackals. Luckily, he had sharp teeth._

_In all honesty, he was tired. That’s why he spared not even a second to stop and think about his condition. He had no time to think._

_But, whenever he felt the breeze of a break, he asked himself – just how much longer could he go on like that until he cracked? Until he fried himself irremediably? He was too young to think of such things, but there he was. Wasting his precious time on contemplation._

_However, he was running late already. That being said, he had no time to ponder such nonsense. He had a deadline for recording the music he only had just composed the previous night, which he had spent mostly awake at his desk at home, and he didn’t want to mess it up. He couldn’t. Not when he was sacrificing his every day to his art, or to what was left of it._

_Therefore, he hurried up towards the front door to the studio. The Broadway was still packed and wild, even if it was nearly the middle of the day. On a side note, Sammy shouldn’t have seen that crowd. He was supposed to be inside the Music Department already, perched up on his pedestal, directing the orchestra. However, he had fallen asleep shortly after completing his newest works and nothing in the world had woken him until it was too late._

_He should not have gone home. Just shouldn’t have. He was late because of it. He hadn’t seen the inside of his house for a few days, but... He should have stayed in his office at the studio. Yes, he should have stayed there, holed up in his dark, messy office, doing his every day work, music sheets after music sheets, hearing instruments in his head and notes rushing into his skull and blurting on the paper, producing more and more because his boss demanded it... What had he been thinking?_

_Sammy really hoped that he would get to record exactly what he wanted. He asked just for that much, nothing else. He really liked what he had composed, he knew it was lovely and that people shall love it, once they heard it. Children would sing it aloud while playing with the pebbles in the lake and parents would hum it absently while doing the dishes, tune too catchy to keep it out of their heads._

_He took pride in his work. Or, rather... he used to._

_Samuel Lawrence was the Head of his department, yes - but he had no saying in there, in the end._

_The young composer saw the large entrance of his workplace and entered the lobby with his breath cut short. He didn’t notice the person behind the front desk, he didn’t notice anyone in the hallway. They were there, he knew it, and he might pass as absolutely rude for not saluting anyone, but all that he saw was the lift that was going to take him to the Music Department and straight to his work. He jumped in and the cabin lifted him up, to his level._

_Inside the modern lift, he had gotten the chance to take a breath. A steadying, deep breath. He couldn’t be seen like that by his colleagues, it just wouldn’t do. All eyes would be on him. He was the conductor, after all, he needed to be presentable._

_So, he inhaled and exhaled, harshly, forcing his heart to beat normally again. Or, hoping that it would magically work out. He let out a shuddering wheeze and made sure his hair was as flawless as always, side-parted golden curls framing his face just right._

_The cabin came to a halt and Sammy finally began noticing his surroundings. The long corridors in his department were right in front of him. He straightened his back as he descended and began walking with purpose. He drew his pointy chin forward, his neck turning even thinner than before, making him resemble an elegant bird floating above the clouds. Dashingly, he entered the main room._

_He saw Susie Campbell, the voice actress who always had the glad eye for him, and he responded to her smile with one of his own. He would eventually have to see her, sometime later, when they would meet to record her lines. Sweet girl, he thought, way too pushy for someone like him, who needed anything but another push. Nonetheless, she was sweet._

_He flew to the orchestra room and turned right, ascending the stairs to the projection booth three at a time. He nearly landed on his face as the tip of his polished shoe caught in one of the steps, but he caught himself just in time. Slightly more cautiously, he opened the door to the booth._

_The booth’s balcony oversaw the recording rooms, and Sammy glimpsed the band members tuning their instruments. He didn’t hear them doing it because those instruments were already tuned to perfection, so what he was listening to was a cacophony of correct sounds thrown in together. They were earning him time with their little pretence._

_Bless them, they were waiting for him and stalling until he eventually arrived._

_The little room that he entered seemed deserted and dark. The musician had a mind of turning the light on, though he had no idea where the switch was. The meagre light that was shining through that darkness was all coming from the music hall downstairs._

_Suddenly, the middle projector lit up, startling the man. He let out a small, undignified yelp._

_“What’s the matter, Lawrence, had your neighbour died? The band’s been swingin’ for a while, waitin’ for you and tunin’, all soundin’ like a funeral is about to happen,” someone said. A clattering laughter filled his ears, rumbling to the point he felt it within his own chest. “Or, is it gonna be yours?”_

_Sammy relaxed, recognising the scratchy voice. “Ah, Norman,” he made, puffing a little chuckle at the strange wording of the studio’s projectionist._

_“Ah, Norman to you, too,” the other man echoed. “Hope you got your sheets with you, Sammy,” he said, pointing one of his long, crooked fingers at the musician’s suitcase._

_The somewhat younger man nodded. “Yes, finished just in time for today. We’re recording-“_

_“I got your reels, rest assured. I says you go down, make your birdies chirp, an’ let me do my job,” Norman Polk interrupted, like he already knew what they were about to do. Not even the band knew what they were going to perform, but good Norman, he knew everything._

_Sammy chortled, not as uneasily as one would expect, and got his black notebook out, along with the loose files for the other musicians. He should have asked someone else to transcribe the scores for the band, but the cartoons were due to release at the end of the week and they had no music and no recordings done for them yet. There wasn’t any time for talking to others._

_He gazed at the tall, slender man in front of him, hunched over his projection machine as he was putting the reel in its place. Norman felt himself being watched and looked up, his pointy, bushy eyebrows lifting high on his forehead._

_“You should go down before Mister Drew waltzes in and changes your tunes,” he commented and nodded to the scene downstairs. “Hopefully, we ain’t gettin’ any modifications this time.”_

_“That would be Heaven on Earth, Norman, Heaven on Earth,” Sammy sang._

_The projector’s lamp flickered, signalling that it had reached the right temperature. The reel clanged inside the machine. “A’right, Mister Samuel Lawrence,” Polk announced pompously, though with great humour in his throaty voice. Sammy nodded at him. “Ready when you’re ready,” the projectionist concluded and sat down on a film crate, his impressionable height still evident._

_“Perfect, Norman, I’ll let you know when to start,” the conductor replied with another fugitive smile and left the booth. He dashed downstairs, keeping a slight smile plastered not to scare everyone off. He at least tried to appear civilised._

_“Good day, everyone! Pardon my tardiness, I believe your instruments are all tuned,” he told the musicians as he distributed the sheets. “Here’s what we are doing today, let’s begin with the practice and after that, we shall proceed to the real deal,” he spoke, his voice all silk and pearls. He had to be in good spirits, they were going to leave for home in the middle of the night, after all, given the real amount of work they had to get done._

_The young composer climbed on his stand and opened the black notebook in which he stored everything that he wrote. He turned the pages to the right song and announced its title to the rest of the band._

_Everyone was in position, instruments were eager to start playing, and finally, Sammy lifted the long black baton. The projector upstairs resounded in the breathless room the exact moment when the conductor’s arm descended._

_And then, the main door opened._

_“Ah, Sammy! I was just looking for you!” the cheery voice of Joey Drew intruded, the man entering as the silent cartoon continued to roll in the background. The studio’s owner was smiling, the joy not reaching his eyes, and he was carrying a roll of film and some papers._

_‘He’s going to change the scenes,’ Sammy realised and looked up at Norman’s booth. Even if he couldn’t see him, he was sure that the projectionist was watching him, thinking the exact same thing._

XXXXX

“And he... changed the scenes,” the soothing voice spoke to no one.

The inky man was arranging some empty bacon soup cans, stacking them up in the shape of a pyramid in front of the Bendy cardboard cut-out that rested on a wall in his small sanctuary. He was doing nothing out of the ordinary, yet something had flashed in his thoughts. A little fragment of a story he couldn’t quite place anywhere.

The owner of that calm voice widened his sunken eyes. He had seen something, in his head, and he had no idea to whom those actions had belonged. But he had heard his own voice saying words, right in his mind, speaking to people with no faces, but whom he knew. Had known. He was sure that he had known them from somewhere, he had heard them clearly. They all had names. He just couldn’t remember their faces, only some cartoonish traits, such as a quirked eyebrow or their bent hands.

He desperately picked up a metallic plate and turned it upside down. His cardboard mask was reflected in it, grotesque and broken. He knew that image by heart. He lifted the dirty and scratched mask and looked at what was revealed.

A face that was no face.

Like the faces he had seen in his head.

Was he-

The floors shook suddenly, there was no doubt about that. One moment, he was on his feet, with a plate in his hand, and now, he was lying flat on his back, sprawled on the floor.

His head hurt. He must have hit himself when he had fallen, there was no other explanation. Quite confused, he gazed around. All that he saw was the same room with the wooden desk and the rickety chair, the candles flickering and the pipes running with dark ink.

But something must have moved. Something very big, very heavy.

He looked around, inspecting his surroundings very carefully to see if anything had changed.

All was the same as usual. Only, it wasn’t.

The empty cans were scattered all over the floor, rolling everywhere, but they hadn’t been the ones that had produced that quake.

Something had fallen down somewhere. And... he had remembered a name. Actually, more names. And facial traits... all blurry, yes, but so very real. Features unlike the dark ink dripping from the top of his head and morphing over shapeless forms. Those things inside his head - they must have happened. Those images. They were memories.

That didn’t qualify as things being the same. Only if he had merely imagined things, but...

 _Samuel Lawrence_. _Sammy._

He had heard that name somewhere.

He frowned and looked again at his inky, dark reflection in the plate.

Yes, he had heard that name before. Sammy Lawrence.

He had heard it, because it belonged to him.

XXXXX

In the depths, away from the stressing inky man, the corridors were narrow and sinewy in front of a wandering creature. Darkness surrounded him, but only around the edges of his vision. All that he saw was revealed by that bright, beaming light that was guiding him, flickering whenever he moved his heavy head.

He had been a man once. He had had a face, a voice, a conscience. Now, he was roaming the hallways, dragging his feet through the thick ink, sloshing over his slick, dark skin, dripping from his form, like a bad joke without a punch. The ink was cold and it was burning him, at the same time. It was moving over his figure and it was staying still. There was a perpetual sensation of something that was not there, invisibly crawling over his arms, yet he knew it was there. It had to be there. Nothing made any sense to him, yet that was the most sensible thought he could form in his clouded mind.

That, along with the feeling of knowing places without knowing them. Another senseless idea that was poking at the mud shaping up his brain.

The only thing that he was certain of? It was a singular sensation, permanent, present in every single tick of his nonsensical existence. It was simple, basic, almost ironical.

Everything ached.

Oh, how he hurt, every time he moved. Standing still hurt even worse. In all that sea of irrationality, the pain was the most real sensation he could experience.

That nearly mindless beast had been someone, once, in a better time. He had been called Norman Polk. A quiet man when he hadn’t wanted to be seen, a bit disagreeable to some, but quite harmless, no matter how dry his jokes had been or how strangely people had looked at him when he was laughing at odd times.

He had worked as a projectionist at Joey Drew Studios and he had possessed some hands of gold, people used to say. He had been skilful, everyone had known it and so had he, managing to work all the projectors and maintain their functionality, even if he had been the only one who did that job. He had been able to restore any pellicles to a functional state, he had know how to work with images and sounds. Nothing could have possibly stopped him from taking care of his machines and his films.

The man he had once been hated being interrupted while he was repairing the projectors or whenever he had to synchronise the videos to the sounds from the orchestra, but he had loved watching the others. He had never hindered people’s work, because they had never had any idea that he was looking at them, finding more about them and storing that information in the back of his mind. He had known everything that could be known, about everyone.

Not maliciously, of course.

Norman had merely been an awfully curious man, always wondering about all and everything. He had never been on the lookout for gossip, mind that, but he had possessed that itching need to know what was going on. Almost compulsively, he had listened and stared, from the darkness. Despite all that, in all his nosiness, he had been benign and tame, never using the information against anyone. Religiously, he had kept silent about what he had uncovered in his pursuit of tackling the beast of his imagination.

He could have made a fine specimen for secret, shady missions, some mindlessly joked, but he had known that he wouldn’t have been able to rat on anyone. He had merely studied the bounty and never collected it.

That had been Norman Polk. A man who had watched and observed, perpetually intrigued by the human behaviour, and no one had been any wiser about it.

That, until something had happened. Something that the wandering beast was sometimes getting glimpses of, whenever he stopped walking in circles, in the tenebrous maze of flooded corridors. Something that played in his head, like the cartoons on the walls, something that disappeared the moment that terrible pain enveloped him and he had to resume his continuous pacing.

To chase the pain away. And the memories.

He took another step, slowly marching through the flooded corridors. He walked aimlessly, in loops, dragging himself like a corpse. His head kept on tilting him forward and he had to bend awkwardly and swing back, not to fall. That balancing motion made him dizzy, but there was no other way. He had to move.

It was silent, in his endless labyrinth. No sounds. Well, not exactly, but it all fell into the background, the only noise besides the swooshing ink coming from the static produced by the speaker in his chest. That round box was below his sternum, crushing the ribs that framed it and forcing him to sit hunched over.

It was silent, until it wasn’t anymore. Out of the blue, something heavy and cold started flowing over his body, threatening to bring him down under its weight. The Projectionist picked up his pace, back doubled over under the force of the impact.

Liquid was seeping from the ceiling and a loud thud echoed throughout the walls.

Impossibly so, he started running. Or wobbling faster, more like, until he was out of the spray. Dark ink was falling from the ceiling in thick rivulets. It was thinning, until it turned into a drip.

The Projectionist turned to look at the dark patch on the ceiling and something close to understanding overwhelmed him. He had to inspect the source of the commotion, probably coming from another floor, above his maze. He should find a way there, to ascend and look into the matter.

Though, nothing stayed that way. No thoughts could last long before being mudded with irrationality, even if the body struggled to execute them. The pain soon came back, of course, and the self was aborted.

So he started pacing again, towards another revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tada, that’s it for now. I hope you enjoyed the first chapter, which is actually more like an introduction, but, you know. I had half a mind – ahem – to write this divided into parts, but here we are. Making chapters.  
> Thank you very much for reading and please, let me know what you thought of this, I’d love to hear your feedback and don’t forget to leave some kudos, if you’d like! I very much appreciate them all. The next chapter is going to be uploaded soon, so please, stay tuned for it!  
> That being said, see you soon with another cartoon! Ta-ta!


	2. Chapter Two – The Mud in the Pond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mornin’! Here is the second chapter of this story which I hope you will enjoy! Thank you for reading and please, let me know what you think of it, I’m looking forward to that. No special warnings for this one, and we’re getting more glimpses! Oh, joy!  
> So, without further blabberings, on we go with the inky flow...

**Chapter Two – The Mud in the Pond**

“Sammy,” the inky conductor said, his voice sounding like a broken record. “Samuel Lawrence.”

He had been repeating that name for some hours now, saying it again and again. He could barely talk anymore, throat clumped with the lack of air and proper moisture, but he was so focused on forcing those words out, he hardly noticed it. His vocal chords were bleeding and he was swallowing thick, dark ink, spewing that name out of his mouth, over and over, until it made no sense.

Dizzily, he barely caught himself as he nearly fell off his feet from the lack of breathing.

He dragged himself towards a wall, afraid to move too much, but knowing that it was imperative to lean against something. He was certain that he was going to collapse.

And why shouldn’t he, after all?

With that, the musician gathered his legs under him, shuddering as he kneeled on the floor. He wasn’t doing it to pray or to worship, no, not that time. He was doing it because he had remembered the most important thing he had forgotten.

Himself. Samuel Lawrence. He had a name. He had been someone before all this.

He had been real.

Sammy knew that he hadn’t just popped up out of nowhere, but it was the first glimpse of himself that he could recall. What a strange feeling, that was, to see his past with such foreign eyes.

He was certain that what he had seen inside his head was a personal memory.

And, with great surprise, he noticed another peculiarity.

That obnoxious, ever present voice of his Lord, that murmur that kept on echoing in his ears, telling him what to do, what to sacrifice to gain favours, whom to worship for blessings, was silent. Muted.

No, it no longer existed. No one was whispering to him anymore.

‘Your name is Sammy,’ he thought.

In surprise, his dark hollow eye sockets widened into perfect circles.

He had just heard his own voice, within his head! He had never heard his inner voice that loudly before! He had always had to talk aloud in order to be able to communicate with himself, because he could barely hear his thoughts over the disturbing speech that didn’t belong to him and that never-ending song that was playing in the background. But without that terrible buzz, he was able to regain a bit of himself.

The inky man inhaled deeply. He couldn’t stay forever on the floor. That would be rather counterproductive. He needed to find out more, to reach within himself and assemble the puzzle. After all that mindless existence, he was finally able to solve the mystery inside him.

To really set himself free. On his own! To be unchained from the shackles of his blind faith, to follow his own volition.

His entire frame shook at that perspective. What a strange notion, identity. It was the first time he put any faith in himself and not in an outer being. Or, at least, from what he could remember. And that was precious little, but that’s all he had.

With no lack of effort, Sammy rose to his feet and walked to the desk by the wall, making a short list of what he was seeing. He was currently in his little sanctuary, his place of quiet, and had been trying to make a pyramid from empty cans. His eyes darted to his side and took note of the scattered vessels. They were there, so that had really happened.

Good.

There had been a crash, he added to the list. It had occurred at around the same time he had had that vision of the past.

He grabbed the axe that was resting nearby the set of pipes. The weight in his hand felt reassuring. Gently, he stroked the hilt as he examined the weapon. His mind was made up, he knew what he had to do. He had to follow his intuition and see where it took him.

With determination, Sammy left the small hidden room and walked into the large recording hall.

Musical instruments were peppered all over the room, on the chairs, on the floor, nailed to the walls. The piano was filled with score sheets and thick dust. Eerily, there was only one key that was devoid of it.

The garage door to the safe place descended behind him, shutting the small room closed. The projector upstairs clicked, just like it did when the reel was placed into position and the film could be rolled.

Sammy tightened his grip on the axe’s handle. It was not safe to stroll around without it, not with those inky blobs that were crawling and demanding murder. They had learnt to fear him and listen to his command, after he had brutally chopped many of them off, but a few poor sods were still trying their luck in getting him back to the well of voices. However, most of them steered away from him and avoided any interaction.

Thankfully, there were no setbacks waiting for him as he made his way to another corridor, where a large logo was decorating the wall.

“Music Department,” he mumbled. “Right... That’s why there are so many instruments, of course. I knew that already,” he continued, making sense of things. He stepped closer to the banner and read the smaller script, neatly written inside a black box. “Director, Sammy Lawrence. Hm,” he hummed. “Director, Sammy Lawrence,” he repeated. “Well, yes, that’s me. Oh! That is me! I’m Sammy Lawrence. That means... huh, I’m the band’s conductor? I’m a musician! That was obvious, naturally. Silly me. I already knew th-aaaagh!”

White pain erupted in his head, stopping his blabbering in its tracks and ending it with a shriek. His hands shot up to his forehead and got blocked by something hard and flat.

Of course, the mask. Gently, Sammy took it off and turned it around, so he could see its front. It was a cut-out, with paint faded and dirty. He looked up, at the cardboard that was placed against the wall, depicting the grinning demon, the same one that was on his mask.

Bendy. His Lord and Saviour.

The one that was going to set him free.

Only that, for some unknown reason, Sammy felt that it wasn’t true. In that very moment, his entire being was vibrating with the knowledge that nothing was real, that he had believed in lies.

He wasn’t aware how he had reached to that conclusion, however. He had been worshiping the dancing demon for a long while, hoping to win its favour with his utter adulation, so convinced that it was his way out of the madness engulfing him. There had been no trace of a doubt before, not to why he was so desperate of getting out of that place, not to what was going on, not to why he was even considering praying to a grinning creature for anything.

Right then, he felt that there was something aloof, something that he had never experienced, however very edificatory. Like a gut feeling, as they say.

Sammy placed the mask back over his face and returned to the music hall. He took note of the door to his right that made him halt his steps. He stared at it, like the knob was going to expand and bite him.

“Steady, now, Sammy,” he told himself, using the newly discovered name. “You’ve been there before, haven’t you? You know what’s in there... but now, maybe, just maybe, you will find some clues. Yes. And your questions shall be answered.”

He straightened his back, chest puffing and neck stretched impossibly forward, gestures that felt strangely familiar.

Firmly, he grabbed the knob and twisted it.

XXXXX

Not that far from the Music Department, a man was panting heavily. His clothes were soiled with that dark substance that was flowing freely on the flooring around the studio. Henry Stein definitely didn’t remember it from when he had worked there, but hell, he hadn’t worked there for long.

It looked like ink, smelled like ink, but it didn’t have the right consistency. It was thick and gooey, like petrol, dripping from the cracks in the ceiling. It was strange, to say the least, but not as much as that creature that had chased him around and was the reason why he had landed some good floors lower than he had previously been.

That monstrosity held some faint resemblance to his dear drawing that he had left behind so many years before. Bendy, his little demon darling, his smile always filled with mischief. Or, that was how he had envisioned him, because the character that had made it into the cartoons looked very different.

And that thing that had reached out for him, still grin plastered sinisterly under thick layers of ink oozing from his horns – that wasn’t his Bendy. That wasn’t even what Joey had made him draw after he had rejected his initial designs. That thing was an abomination and he had no idea who or what had spawned it.

Though he had a fair hunch about that particular aspect.

The machine must have attracted its attention. Henry had no idea why he had activated it, but something had told him that he should do it. It had nothing to do with the recording he had found on the floor, belonging, according to a small label on its front, to a certain Wally Franks. He didn’t know the man either, though it was no surprise. He reminded himself he hadn’t been around the studio for that long and most of the staff was replaced or hired later than his departure. The mysterious man must have been someone who had been employed after he had left.

Something crawled besides him, making Henry believe that it was high time he moved. Where else, but forward, because he was definitely not going back, where that monster was lurking.

So, forward it was.

XXXXX

Sammy opened the door, revealing a flight of stairs. He ascended them and got upstairs, to the dark booth where a projector was balanced over the edge of the balcony.

He walked towards it and looked down, at the band room, still in the same dusty disarray. His eyes roamed around, setting on a large voice recorder. He paced to it and, after checking that the tape was at the beginning, he pressed the play button.

The device whirred to life and a gruff, suspicious voice began echoing around the walls of the silent room.

He listened to it, already knowing what it had to say, though he still searched for a clue that he could connect to himself. To that unknown that he was dabbling into.

The thick words weren’t really flattering, now that he was paying attention to them. The recording was about him and the way he was running around, up and down the stairs, the owner of that scratchy, bouncy voice being unaware that Sammy was, in fact, opening up his covert sanctuary. Though that was the room’s point, to be a secret.

The man in the recording was relaying the sequence of actions that Sammy undertook. “ _This man’s weird. Crazy weird_ ,” he concluded his description with a note of exasperation, and the composer couldn’t help his chuckle. The voice sounded really indignant and it made Sammy feel warm, the sentiment creeping up on his body and sending shivers down his spine.

Because he knew that voice. He knew it, and very well, at that. It was the voice of the man whom he had talked to, in his memory. The one who was waiting for him, in that very room, so he could start up the projector and begin their work.

Spacing out whatever the recording still had to say, Sammy took a startled step back. His elbow bumped into the projector, making him jump.

XXXXX

_Norman Polk was never looking for any sort of trouble. Yes, people were certain that he, in fact, was - but he could readily swear he wasn’t. He was just very curious about what was happening around him and felt a morbid urge to investigate anything that sparked his interest. Nothing more, nothing less. Plain curiosity, just that simple._

_Though, that time around, it was something more than just mere curiosity that drove him to remain hidden in the shadow behind the piano, in the band’s room. It was annoyance._

_He had had about enough of that air-headed and positively rude musician that kept on randomly slamming the booth’s door like he owned the place, started up the central projector and more often than not ruined the reel inside, because he had no idea how the machine worked, and then abruptly dashed to the recording hall and disappeared Lord knew where for long hours._

_They had lots of work to do, anyway, so there was no need for Sammy Lawrence to act like a madman. He could do it on his own time, preferably not at the studio, or just ask to have the projector operated and refrain from kicking everyone in the room out like a maniac and pretending he had any technical knowledge, which he sorely lacked._

_Therefore, Norman decided it was high time he found out what on Earth was happening, after the band was dismissed as they were practicing alone. Judging by the sound of hurried steps that drummed from the corridor, it was either a herd of cattle or Sammy coming in like one._

_Just as expected, once the projector upstairs lit up – determining Norman to hope with all his might that it had been fired up properly, so that he wouldn’t have to fix it for the umpteenth time – the conductor made his thundering appearance downstairs._

_Even when he was in a hurry, the composer floated graciously through the room. He had a way that made him look like he was walking on clouds, strangely mesmerising to watch. Sammy was a specimen to gaze at, always appearing like he was glowing, light catching in his golden wavy hair and greenish hazel eyes, making him seem like a songbird rather than a real man. Just an observation, of course, because that’s what Norman was doing. Observing._

_The music director proceeded to playing individual notes on some of the instruments, all sounding very random and definitely not melodious, but that seemed to stop the projector. In the corner, something appeared to be moving._

_Norman shifted a bit from his hiding place behind the piano, to see better. The door to a long abandoned utility closet seemed to be moving, as if it was some fancy garage door, and Sammy walked inside. It closed after him._

_Like that, the musician was gone from his sight._

_“A trap room, huh? Jesus, Lawrence, you could’ve just said it, but nah, you had to act like a lunatic,” Norman marvelled out loud, hardly believing what he had just seen. How bloody convenient._

_He waited some more, making sure that Sammy wouldn’t return unexpectedly, then left his hiding place. He ascended to his booth and inspected the projector, making sure it was still functional and unharmed, then lit it up._

_The cartoon started playing on the wall, so Norman returned to the orchestra hall. He repeated the same actions he had seen the musician doing, and, just as expected, the barrier lifted up._

_The projectionist swallowed drily, not entirely easy with the prospect of entering. But he had come that far, he might as well have a word with the conductor and ask him to stop ruining his film reels and projectors. Norman was the one who had to patch them back up, not that cracker-case._

_He entered a narrow corridor that opened in a small room, where Sammy was very intently playing a banjo and muttering under his breath, following the melody that he was about to write down._

_“So, this is where you’ve been hidin’,” Norman told, startling the soul out of the conductor, who instantly clutched the neck of the instrument he was playing._

_“For fuck’s sake, Norman, quit sneaking around! Good Heavens, you’ve scared me!” Sammy exclaimed, voice turned into a shrill. “What are you doing here? What the hell do you want?”_

_“Want nothin’, Lawrence, just came to see why you keep on interruptin’ my work in the middle of the day and wreckin’ up my projectors. But, huh, guess you finally snapped, though I heard that’s bound to happen to you, the artistic personalities.”_

_Sammy blinked, pupils still dilated from the shock. “I beg your pardon,” he said, sounding offended._

_“Why, ‘cause that’s what you do. I mean, you composers are always snappin’ your fingers to the rhythm when you write. Always snapin’- snap, snap, snap. An’ you’re the one writin’ all the songs. So, you snapped.”_

_The absurdity of the jest made Sammy actually smile. He laughed good-naturedly, more breath than sound. “Heh. Guess I have, haven’t I?”_

_It was Norman’s turn to look surprised, his incredulity painted all over his face. The musician noticed it, and his elegant grin faltered. “What is it?”_

_“Well, nothin’ really. You just laughed, s’all.”_

_“Um, yeah? Yes, I did, obviously. You said something I’ve found amusing. Is there a problem with that, now?”_

_Norman rubbed the back of his head, sheepishly, shuffling a bit on his legs. “Sure not, but, well, Mister Lawrence, you’re about the only one ‘round laughin’ at my jokes.”_

_Sammy munched on the inside of his cheek, appearing confused. “That so?”_

_“A-yuh, people say they’re bad. I dunno what to say, I ain’t no comedian. I’m a projectionist, ain’t gettin’ paid to crack funnies.”_

_“I wouldn’t say they’re exactly bad, that’s a bit harsh. Yes, they’re... different, I’d say. Although sometimes, Mister Polk, different is not a bad thing,” Sammy replied solemnly, taking a little proverbial bow of his head at the end._

_Normal chuckled, sounding like a fork scratching a dish. “Huh, you’re a poet, so I guess it makes all the sense.”_

_“Oh, but no, Norman! I’m a composer. I only write poetry to pass the time, nothing serious. Jack’s the one with the lyrics, not me.” Sammy’s smile returned, just as brilliant, when he brushed a silky strand of honey hair from his bright eyes. “Since I’ve been so rudely discovered, I might as well ask. Do you like my lair?”_

_“It sure’s small, but seems cosy.”_

_“Mhm. And quiet. Very quiet.”_

_“You’re evadin’ for a bit of silence, ain’t you.”_

_Sammy shrugged. “I have to work, but there is too much noise with these pumps, and conducts, and drains, and dripping stuff. I can’t even hear the instruments I’m playing, not to mentions the notes as I write them! It’s so damn loud! So, if Joey wants his songs, I’ve got to stay in this little dump I call a sanctuary.”_

_“Sanctuary?” Norman inquired. He looked around and whistled. “That’s some big words you’re spreakin’ there, Lawrence, but I guess I’ve seen worse. Still, I don’t know about the quiet, in here. See... you still have some pipes, right behind you.”_

_“Yes, but the room’s isolated, and these pipes are not that noisy. If anything, they’re just there. Not like the damn pumping station in my office. It’s going to drive me insane if I stay there for another second, you know.”_

_“I don’t condemn you, really,” the projectionist commented. “It’s nice to have a place where you can, eh... recollect yourself.”_

_“Do you have such a spot, Norman?”_

_“Hm. Sorta, I s’ppose. Anywhere’s dark is fine. Hurts my eyes less,” the taller man explained, pointing to his mismatched eyes, left one dark and the other a strange blind blue that he had earned after an accident in his early youth, when a close explosion had released a metal splinter that had injured it and had affected the vision in that orb a great lot, along with changing its coloration. “I get to hear my thoughts, as many as they are. People don’t wander much into the darkness, so I’m left alone.”_

_“Must be rather nice.”_

_“You ain’t gonna hear me complainin’, oh no.”_

_“Hmh.”_

_The two men looked at each other, the seated one still gripping the banjo like he was about to turn it into a baseball bat and the one standing resembling a windblown crooked fence._

_In that awkward position, Sammy was the first to gather his wits, surprisingly. “Say, Norman, do you have any work to do, right now?”_

_“Some tinkerin’, ‘s’always. Reverse some rolls, fix some faulty tapes, add some scenes to a film,” Norman replied. “Things like that.”_

_“Reckon it’s going to be noisy?”_

_“Nah, shouldn’t be. Just a whoosh, at most.”_

_“If so, you can stay here, if you’d like. Keep me company.”_

_One of the bushy eyebrows on Norman’s forehead lifted comically high above his suspicious eyes. “Whatcha sayin’, Lawrence?”_

_“I’m going to be playing some instruments, anyway, so even if you make any sounds, it will be at least partially masked. And you should hear the music anyway, we’ll have to synchronise the songs to the scenes at some point. Might as well do it now. Saves time, you know.”_

_Norman shrugged. “Sounds fair to me. I’m gonna bring my reels.”_

_“Leave the door opened.”_

_The projectionist glanced once more at the composer, looking all business-like serious, and supposed that it wouldn’t be that bad to do his work with some music in the background. Perhaps it was going to sound strange, because Sammy was bound to skip over notes to make sure they went right in specific sections, or play the same thing time and time again. That wasn’t going to sound very flattering, but how bad could it be, really._

_However, with every passing hour of the mesh, he found out that he wasn’t bothered by that cacophony, not in the slightest. And definitely not irked by the man delivering it with precise strokes._

_Norman never thought he would ever admit it, but he had always tolerated the other’s presence, contrary to the popular belief. Sometimes, even welcomed, as a distraction from the quotidian. Sammy wasn’t oftenly a pleasant character once he opened his mouth, though the projectionist always saw deeper inside a man’s soul. He was actually amused by the composer’s ample efforts to make himself despised just to get more time to work. That one needed to find some worth-while leisure activities, besides writing for his job, or he was going to end up enveloped in a straight-jacket’s loving embrace._

_Although, with this new development of theirs that turned into a routine faster than it should have, he was starting to actually enjoy Sammy’s company, not just accommodate it._

_Alarmingly much, at that._

_But, eh. Odd sticks to the odder, he supposed._

_And he would leave it at that._

XXXXX

Sammy lifted a hand to the mask over his face, attempting to cover his already shielded mouth. He was clutching the box that protected the lamp of the projector, fearing he might collapse again.

He knew that voice. He knew that man behind it.

How foolish he had been.

It was Norman’s. The man sprucing up from his vivid imagination. Norman Polk, the projectionist, a close colleague. Not exactly from his department, he was shared with Animation, but spending a lot of time there, in his balcony booth or other places, appearing out of nowhere and disappearing in the same fashion. They had worked together for years, creeping each other out until they had formed an eerie friendship that had worked well between them.

There was a lot of mist over that man and who he had been to him, but the musician felt a pang, where his heart was supposed to be. He honestly didn’t know what it was. However, he was certain there was something to it. Something meaningful.

The screeching of a wooden door disrupted his reverie. His stomach churned and the ink in it made him sick. There was a sinking feeling to that sound and he couldn’t quite place it. Another gut feeling, he supposed. He seemed to be experiencing a lot of them, lately.

His feet were telling him to go, attract whoever was venturing in his domain, and he couldn’t do anything but listen to the impulse.

XXXXX

Luring the intruder proved to be a fairly smooth endeavour, Sammy thought, though he couldn’t help noticing how perfectly orchestrated it felt.

An unknown man entering his department and snooping around, opening doors to closets and listening to tapes, searching for a way to stop a leaking in front of the music director’s office to enter it and drain a lower floor. And Sammy just walking after him like he already knew what to do, where to find the perfect spots to hide from the newcomer and where to move to next. It was far too convenient.

He was walking his steps as if he had walked them before, and he was sure he hadn’t. Or... had he? He couldn’t say. How unpleasant it was not to know.

No, it was infuriating, not just bothersome.

Getting closer to the stranger, he realised how different he looked. A man somewhat shorter than himself, with skin the same colour as old paper. Just like the walls. His clothes were stained with ink, but they were visible.

Although, the greatest peculiarity was his face. He actually had a face and hair on top of his head, unlike Sammy, whose entire visage was covered in the dark goopy substance. The intruder had eyes, a nose and a mouth, all visible, not just some dents on an otherwise blank balloon.

The former prophet watched from the shadows, revelling in his ability to pass through the creaks in the walls, and observed every move the unwanted visitor made. Or, maybe, he was wanted. He might serve some purpose, to please his Lord, to attract His attention and fall back into His grace.

Sammy stopped for a moment. Where did that thought come from? That was even stranger than the newcomer. Something was urging him to go to that man, knock him out, tie him up and offer him to his Lord, whereas the newfound rationality in his brain was deeming those actions absolutely idiotic. He could worship his Lord all he wanted, but he was very much aware that He was dangerous, and possibly uncooperative.

However, that unexpected little guest of his could prove useful, after all, but in a very different context. He might know somethinng about Sammy and the place where they were. Any information he possessed could be vital.

It tugged at Sammy, the want to call for his Master. The need, more like. The urge. To tell Him that he had found a worthy sacrifice, a strange aberration that would intrigue Him and keep Him happy. To show his love to Him and his utter devotion. The Devil might take mercy on his soul and let His prophet go, end his holy mission, set him free from the unmerciful inky prison.

Another passing thought warned the composer that nothing of that was ever going to happen.

But his unconscious was expecting him to do just that, drilling him with dangerous suggestions.

Conflicted, Sammy resorted to merely hitting the intruder with a dustpan and dragging him to a chair. That was his starting point, he could improvise on the go. He was an artist, after all. It said so on the wall.

He immobilised the peculiar creature with some rope he had once found while exploring his department. He waited patiently for the man to wake up, taking his time to study him.

There was some familiarity to the sleepy face. Well, he was going to ponder on that, but it wasn’t exactly the moment, as the man was stirring awake.

Sammy made a gesture to start talking, but words got caught in his throat. He knew what he was about to say, but in truth, those were not the words that he wanted to speak. He had already made up his mind, that he wanted to learn who the intruder was, yet his larynx demanded that he talked some crazy things about sacrifices and offerings. He had taken his prisoner to what he had dubbed as ‘The Sacrifice Room’, so he supposed that particular speech made some sense.

He tightened his grasp on the axe that he carried with him. It was still dangerous to roam around unarmed, he reminded himself as he clutched the weapon.

The man was looking at him, horrified, asking him what was happening. What a coincidence, Sammy was wondering about the same thing.

He had prepared a sacrificial altar, all rehearsed and automatic, and now, finding himself in front of it, with a sheep to slaughter, the shepard had no idea what to do.

In a careless gesture, he let the axe fall to the ground. He stepped to the tied-up man and stared at him. “You look familiar,” Sammy said, voice calm and distant, words almost matter-of-factly. Because it was true. The unwanted company was someone that he knew.

Was it from that life he had received those glimpses of? Or... had they met before, in the place they currently were?

“Who are you?” the prisoner asked, trying hard to remain composed. “Please, I was just passing by, I don’t mean any harm to anyone. I saw you moving some cardboards and I wanted to speak to you. Are you Sammy Lawrence? That was written on the banner and you sound like his recordings. I found a label with that name on one of them.”

Sammy’s hand lifted, creeping close to the man’s cheek. He wanted to touch it, curious of how that paper skin felt, but he refrained from it. Instead, he straightened his back and asked his own question, without replying to the one already addressed. “Have you ever seen me before? In this place?”

The man mustered up some strength to talk. “I’ve seen you in the Music Department, you were at a balcony.”

“No-no-no-no,” Sammy blurted quickly, his fingers twitching. “Have you seen me, in this room?” he clarified, pointing to himself and then to the floor.

“I- I don’t know what this room is. I don’t know where it is.”

“You don’t? Are you sure? Absolutely and irrevocably certain?”

The stranger nodded in response and swallowed, hoping he had answered correctly. The ink covered creature didn’t seem hostile, not entirely, but he was having serious doubts about his innocence with every passing glance around the candle filled room. He didn't look like he had all the screws in his head properly placed. 

On the brighter side, the inky man didn’t seem to notice his distress. The mask he was wearing was still pointed at him, but he didn't advance from his position. He was fidgeting with his long, straight fingers, made for playing the instruments, not holding axes.

Henry, the tied man, thought he could safely confirm his suspicion that his captor was indeed the same Sammy Lawrence that was being advertised on the front wall. However, that didn’t help him, he was still going to remain confined if he didn’t do anything.

So he tried an approach and hoped it would work. “Mister Lawrence? Sammy? Look, I’m sorry, but I don’t know you personally.” That definitely had the inky musician’s attention. He was still standing idly, so the restricted man continued. “We haven’t worked together, I’m afraid, so we’ve never been introduced. My name is Henry Stein and I am a cartoonist-“

“Then why do you look so familiar to me, hm? Why?” Sammy demanded, voice cracking. “I don’t understand, I should be calling for Him, He will set us free, both of us, all of us, free from this inky abyss... and yet...” He was frantic by then, walking in circles. “I did what He had asked of me, I sacrificed so much for Him, I gave Him everything... and what do I receive? I see all sorts of oddities and I no longer hear Him. I no longer hear the voices... What is the sense of all this? I know who I am, yes, and I have no idea, all at the same time! Who am I? Who is the one in my head, if it’s not me? What am I even doing?”

The light in the room was dimming, slowly, insidiously. A small, sliding sound crept inside, swishing like a gentle breeze.

Sammy halted his tirade, listening intently. In a dash, he bent to untie his prey, nearly toppling over from inertia.

“Listen,” he said, desperately. “Take the axe and run, as fast as you can. Don’t let Him catch you! Please, Henry, find me again. I need to know why I remember you.”

“What-“

“Run from Him, Henry! And find me. I know you will, my sheep!” Sammy shouted as he darted inside the adjoined room.

Henry looked around, barely seeing anything, until he did come face to face with what had made Sammy so afraid.

That lurking, limping monstrosity.

He broke into a sprint, running for his life. And quite literally, at that.

XXXXX

Sammy barely escaped his encounter with the Inky Demon, just a speck of dust away from getting himself transformed into a shiny ink puddle dripping through the splinters in the floor.

He slid from one crack in the wall to another, haphazardly darting from whatever was breathing inside the rooms and making his way to another.

He was desperate, unthinking, just running away like a rabbit on a field. Nothing made sense anymore and it was terrifying, because he was no longer sensing that pull from before. There was a void spiralling from within his chest, taking him nowhere, showing him nothing.

It all felt new, that rush. No notion of guidance through the darkness of the ink, just himself and his need to hide. Another impulse which he had never experienced before.

When he stopped, he had no idea where he was. He looked around, trying to recognise the place.

He heard the elevator by his side whirl, the same one he had seen in his vision. Only, that this one looked decrepit and poorly maintained, the brass having lost all of its shine.

With a startle, he realised where he was. He was in that place, where the Angel was screaming about her heinous cravings. He wasn’t wanted in there. He had ventured in there, once, and it had nearly ended very badly.

Once again, Sammy became one with the flowing ink, descending to another floor. The moment he stopped his sliding, he stepped out of the travelling channel and reached a very dark room, with small, rectangular shapes blinking with light.

Upon better inspection, he realised he was on a corridor, and that the light was actually coming from a rolling cartoon, like the ones he could see in his department. Only, that this one was played in a loop, ending abruptly and starting from the beginning.

Something inside him determined the musician to whistle a song, the same he used to hear when that Voice had still been talking to him. It seemed to fit the images oddly well, to the point he no longer felt the ink in his veins pulse with panic. The ink around his feet sloshed gently as he tapped rhythmically.

He kept on doing that, repeating the melody every time the images started a new cycle. The repetition proved quite addictive. 

All that, until a bright light shone over him, right behind his back.

A resounding scream followed, terrifying Sammy. Not wasting any time to look back, he made a run for the nearest wall, bluntly colliding with it. There was no creak for him to slide into, just hardwood pressing against his torso. He turned around and flattened his shoulders on the wall.

“Oh, no, no,” he muttered, stilled in place, like a sheep in front of the wolf. Normally, he would have dignified that irony with at least a chuckle. However, the shrilling cries continued and light kept on blinding him – that was not the best moment for jests.

Accepting his fate, Sammy closed his eyes and willed his ears to shut off. He knew what was going to happen. He was going to die and he had no strength to beg for his life. It was helpless, anyway, so why humiliate himself even more. He was going to be slaughtered, no matter what he’d say or do.

He might as well go with dignity. Let his pride shine through. 

Mindlessly, speaking thoughts that didn’t belong to him, Sammy opened his mouth to present his final words.

“Forgive me, Norman.”

He tightened his closed eyes, clenched his inky teeth, waiting for his final judgement.

And waiting.

Waiting some more.

Sammy opened his eyes back. The light was still on him, although dimmer and a bit to the side, like it was positioned so it wouldn’t get into his eyes. There were no odd noises. The room was silent, apart from the occasional dripping sounds.

It was so... quaint. Eerily so.

In front of him, a thin, tall creature was peering at him. It must have been the one who had came close to attacking him.

He wondered why it had stopped. What had he done to prevent his gruesome demise?

‘Oh,’ Sammy thought. It must have been the words that he had spoken.

The large creature wasn’t standing still, like the composer had previously assessed. It was flexing its long muscular limbs very slowly. Studying it, it had the body constitution of a man, with narrow hips and very strong legs. It was hunched over, a big film case planted deeply into its shoulder, protruding cables and dirty celluloid films connecting his back to the large projector that served as a head protection. Its body was willowy, yet curvy at the same time. Its chest was burly with evident strength, framing a round speaker inserted under its sternum.

Sammy could see patches of beige cloth underneath the dripping ink on the creature’s form.

No, not creature.

“Are you... Norman? Norman Polk?” Sammy asked, using the name from his visions. Somehow, that made sense to him.

The creature – the man – seemed to hear him. He was struggling to remain in one place, in front of the trembling musician. “I’m, um... Sammy. Samuel Lawrence... I think,” the conductor added, speaking as clearly as he could, hoping that he was being heard.

The slender beast appeared to be listening, no longer set on ripping him apart. The static in his speaker was low, comforting, so Sammy continued.

“Yes, yes, as I was saying... I am Sammy, and if you are Norman, I think we had been friends. Once... in another life, I believe. Anyway. I don’t want to fight you, I’ve just landed in here by accident. I was running away from the Demon and the Angel. They don’t exactly... fancy me, if you understand what I mean.”

The Projectionist’s light drifted at the words, resuming its place on the composer’s mask. His long arm reached for the other’s, who instantly backed into a wall. Scared out of his wits, Sammy retracted into himself, as much as he could. “Please, I told you, I mean no harm! Please, listen to me!”

The cold hand caught his wrist and pulled it slowly towards the projector’s lenses. The creature examined it, turning the other’s hand on each side carefully, not to break anything.

Just as sluggishly, he let go of that arm and repeated the same action with its counterpart.

The light that was coming from the machine head wasn’t blinding anymore, so when the mask that covered his face was lifted, Sammy only needed to squint slightly.

The beast examined him, probably. After he satisfied his curiosity, he put the mask back into its former position. Just as before, he captured Sammy’s wrist, but this time, he tugged it insistently.

“Yes?” the inky man muttered, perfectly confused. “Norman, what is it?”

The creature started walking slowly, the projector on his shoulders driving his whole torso forward, and dragged Sammy after him, gingerly, yet firmly clasping his wrist.

XXXXX

_“Yes, Norman,” Sammy grumbled, rubbing his sore eyes. “What is it?”_

_“Oh, lemme show you this, Lawrence, you’re gonna leave talkin’ to yourself afterwards,” Norman promised, grinning that disturbing smile of his, the corners of his eyes crinkling with impish mischief. “I mean, more than you usually do.”_

_Sammy looked at his friend, chewing very hard on the proverbial grain of salt. He nodded reluctantly, might as well see what the projectionist was on about. “Alright, alright. Show me what you want, and then let me go home.”_

_It was very late at night. The two of them had just finished synching the sound for the newest cartoons to the image. Sammy had mostly kept Norman company and wrote some drafts for the new scores, while the projectionist arranged the film reels into their definitive forms._

_It wasn’t supposed to be his job, they should have had a technician hired especially for that, but Norman, just as deft as usual, had taught himself the skill. He was already operating the cameras and the projectors, so what if he sometimes had to also merge the slides, do some edits on them and many other things that had nothing to do with his primary job for which he actually had training. There was no one else to do those procedures most of the time, anyway, so he had assumed the responsibility for them whenever he had to._

_Same with the recording. A sound technician would have come in handy, sure, yet they had none who had the physical time to make the fine tunings. The ones that existed were overburdened with other problems. Therefore, Sammy had taken that attribution upon himself, inspecting the audio feed along with his other administrative and creative attributes, closely working with his colleague to finish in time. They both desired quality, so they couldn’t leave anything unchecked._

_The arrangement was also a compromise so they wouldn’t go insane with the amount of work they had, sharing each other’s company being a way to lift the mood up a notch. They both had too much to do in too little time, but they were doing what they could._

_As far as it went, Norman welcomed the challenge of the new chores, never one to pass up the opportunity to learn something new, but he couldn’t just ignore the distress that was constantly brought to Sammy’s tray. The composer wasn’t one to laze around, but his sincere suffering was evident. It was difficult to watch his nearly self-sacrificial work being butchered by their boss, who kept on telling him to change things to the point not even the writer recognised his creations._

_Yes, the magnificent Joey Drew._

_Norman had nothing against the bloke, he was merely the one signing his pay check, and nothing else. But Norman was not an artist. He was a technician and would always be a technician. He took pride in what he did and wanted his work to be top class, but no crazy modification could alter his repairs or edits to such a length as it happened with the music._

_Alas, Sammy Lawrence was hurt by all that was happening. He was doing his uttermost and damndest to create great scores, even if he had inhumanely tight schedules. And not only did he not get any credit for his work, but he also never had the certainty that he was writing for the exact scenes that would eventually make it into the finished cartoons. Never knew what to expect of the new demands. Never had any guarantee he wasn’t wasting his time on ideas that would never take shape._ _He lost his days and nights to his art, ran on frugal sleep and ate close to nothing, just to be able to make it on time. He loved every little line he wrote, every note and dot._

_All of his passion was put in every small detail, and he always proudly carried his music sheets around._

_Until he reached Drew’s office, of course._

_It wasn’t a daily occurrence that the studio’s director changed anything dramatically, but every single time stung the young composer._

_Just the other day, Joey had told Sammy that he didn’t believe that one of his new ditties sounded like what he had imagined, and it wasn’t all that good for the material they had. Norman wasn’t an expert, but he had really enjoyed the piece when the musician had played it for him, asking for his opinion. It had sounded wonderful, and he was certain that children would hum along it. Hell, even his niece and nephew would probably sing them for him over the phone when he’d call to see how the oldest of his sister was doing._

_Evidently, Mister Drew begged to differ, because of course he knew better than a Conservatory alumnus._

_After Joey had insulted his work, Sammy had returned to his department, eyes glossy with wrath and fists clenched. He had stormed to the projection booth and initiated the sequence to open the hidden door to his quiet room._

_Norman had happened to be in the booth, going unnoticed like usual, and had followed his friend to his sanctuary, to see what had happened. He had found him breaking down, standing on his knees on the floor and crying frustrated silent tears, a thing that had never happened before, damning Joey Drew for his planning and his stupid ideas._

_He had comforted the seething man to the best of his aptitudes, not far from cooing at him. Eventually, Sammy’s weary tears_ _had stopped and they had returned to their respective works, because there was not any moment to spare, even if their nerves were stretched tremendously._

_That very morning, Joey had made his appearance in the Music Department, akin to a ray of sunshine, and had informed Sammy that he should leave his song the way it had been originally, because he had thought a bit more and had found that it worked alright. Silly him, the older man joked, he should have known he had the most talented composer, and some more sleek lines._

_The conductor had sketched a crispate pathetic upturned line on his otherwise tired and apathetic face. He had stood up the entire night, changing everything the way Joey had demanded, only to hear that he had wasted his time and energy on something that would stay the same._

_That was precisely why Sammy loved his boss so much, with every fibre of his being. He determined him to learn new curses and swears. Expand his vocabulary to unmentionable peaks._

_Once he had been left alone, Sammy had banged his forehead on the piano, hard, making some notes play by themselves. He had cussed once again, finding it harder and harder to remain calm, and resumed his never ending pile of poorly-organised work._

_In the evening, they had been announced about the new deadlines, and both Lawrence and Polk had found themselves very much behind that date. So, together, they had joined forces so they could support each other, at least mentally. Not that Normal required much reassurance, but he really wanted to keep an eye on the composer, in case he got any dangerous ideas._

_But, right then, in the middle of the night, when they had finished with the plans for the day, they could finally relax a bit. They deserved to catch a little breath._

_Norman chanced a glance at Sammy, who looked drained of all his will to live. His sharp chin was pointed to his chest, his cheeks were rather gaunt and his hazel eyes were sunken and too dark, heavily rimmed with red. His hair was messily slicked back, out of necessity, because it kept on falling into his eyes, and it had little to no shine, nor was it styled like it usually was, parted on the side and curling by his temples._

_That sad little image was how the musician looked every other night of overtime work, after long hours of driving himself into an early grave. No one noticed it, because Sammy masked it as best as he could, but he had no more energy to hide it from Norman. He knew that he could let his guard down around that man, so he just let things show. And the damage was blatant._

_The projectionist rummaged through his imagination for something to cheer up his once radiant friend. He found himself missing his dashing, slightly unnerved smiles and flawless looks from before work had become more taxing than it was worth. He reckoned some fresh air and a nice view would do him some good, so he took the conductor to the rooftops._

_The corridor leading to the upper trap door was really dark, and the musician saw well enough to be able to pluck his eyes out and little else. He navigated blindly, not seeing the taller man that was right in front of him. He nearly collided with a wall at some point._

_“Easy, there, Lawrence, don’t bash your brains out, who's gonna write the music if you do,” Normal said, his hoarse voice otherworldly in the nothingness surrounding them._

_Sammy stopped walking and blindly felt around with his hands. “How the hell can you even see anything? Where are you?”_

_“Right behind you,” Norman whispered in his ear. The conductor jumped. He turned abruptly to punch Normal, who was starting to get on his nerves, only to hit the air._

_The projectionist began laughing, sounding a bit like rocks tumbling into water. “Don’t get your knickers in a knot, Sammy, it’s jus’some fun.”_

_“Yeah, some shitty fun you’re showing me.”_

_“Shush that beak of yours, now,” Polk told him. Sammy frowned, still not seeing a thing. He felt some rough fingers enveloping his wrist. “Walk small steps so you don’t fall an’ break your neck. An’ follow my lead.”_

_“Okay, then lead the way,” Sammy agreed and trusted his friend to guide him to the rooftops, too tired to bother wondering why they hadn’t brought a flashlight with them and why was Norman seeing anything at all. He doubted he would be satisfied by the explanations anyway._

_At some point, they ascended some stairs, slowly as not to have the musician landing on his face. With a screech, the projectionist opened a metallic door, allowing the moonlight to shine upon their faces._

_Sammy gasped, looking at the sky up above. They were in the middle of New York City, on the Broadway Boulevard no less, where it was bright even during the night, yet the stars were twinkling beautifully over their heads. It wasn’t something one could see from the street, where the neon lights were blinding you and catching your gaze._

_No, the little luminous matters were bright on the dark sky, only illuminated by the moon. The rustle and bustle of the crowd was just a background noise and the colourful lights were a dying match’s flame._

_The composer’s eyes became once again bright and clear, catching the light in them. In the moonlight, he was handsome, like he had always been. He began grinning like a little child in a candy shop, everything that he saw a wonderful infinity. His soul quivered at the magnificent nature displayed right before him, ever present, but going unseen because of their constant worries._

_‘When have I forgotten how to live,’ Sammy wondered, lessened into a mere shadow under the sky up above._

_“I gather you like it,” Norman broke the silence, voice whizzing with its broken perk. He sounded like the wind, but the musician welcomed the medley tune. It held such a mysterious appeal to his well versed eardrums._

_Sammy didn’t even realise that Polk was still clutching his wrist. Nor did the man himself, as a matter of fact, because he was too mesmerised with how pleased the music director’s expression had turned, and how much like a masterfully constructed statue he looked. A statue of a peacock, of a falcon or an eagle, but without the feathers, his features all in pointy angles. His nose was almost like a straight beak, sharp and elegant, and his thin lipped mouth was broadened into a toothy smirk._

_The light pressure on the musician’s forearm wasn’t bothering, once he discovered it was still present. He looked down at their hands, his long and thin wrist covered by Norman’s heavily calloused fingers. Normally, Sammy wouldn’t have welcomed such interaction, but it was his friend that was holding him so delicately, not even daring to touch his hand in fear he might lash out at him. Just innocently holding his wrist, like young boys on their first day of school._

_The projectionist must have realised what he was doing, because he let go of him, as gingerly as he could, like he wanted his indiscretion to go unnoticed._

_Of course, Sammy felt it all. That absence, that coldness on his skin where Norman’s fingers had been, guiding him through the darkness._

_He chose to ignore the unpleasant sensation, as hard as it was, and merely looked up, at the wide sky. “Oh, yes, Norman, you were right. It most definitely is beautiful.”_

XXXXX

Sammy stared at his dark forearm, covered in thick ink, his wrist entirely covered by the large, gnarly palm of the lurking creature.

No. Not a lurker. That was Norman, the man from his visions, he reminded himself. The one who had showed him the stars, that night so long ago. The one who had held his wrist just the same when he had guided him to the door to the sky, not letting him get lost in the darkness. His beacon of light.

He didn’t know why, but he was certain he could trust the beast that was taking him deeper into the abyss, leading him further into the belly of those twisted corridors.

Things were moving around them, perhaps hostile spirits or some distorted pitiful lumps of gooey flesh, but nothing dared approaching the hulking creature with the big projector on his head. He looked mighty and those fingers of his, with a glimpse of a glove under the inky substance that was smeared over them, looked sharp and deadly. He must have maimed enough of those damned souls to have earned that stalemate.

It was almost like in his memory. A big, comforting hand taking him to a beautiful, peaceful place. Unmindful, Sammy let himself be dragged further through the river of ink, rivulets sloshing by his feet.

The sound of a door opening and then closing filled the silence, accompanied by another swish of ink. They had reached a pitch dark place, the shining light from the projector nearly engulfed by the shadows. Sammy should have been afraid, but he was not. His entire being was telling him that nothing bad could happen to him, not with Norman, in whom he was foolishly putting all of his trust, without second guessing his impulses. Well, there may have been a tiny, gut-eating incertitude poking at his chest and twisting tight from within, but his faith was stronger than that.

The creature jerked momentarily and lit a match. The small flame was lowered to a white stick, igniting the wick, and the overwhelming darkness that framed the projector’s corners was cut by the weak candle light. The supporting hand departed from Sammy’s, and the inky man watched the hunched body of his new companion move from a place to another, lighting up more candles.

For a moment, he remembered the many sacrifice rituals he had done over the time and got a fright. Upon better inspection, the random order of the candle sticks eased the former prophet’s mind. The creature was just making some light for him, so he could see around himself.

Once the Projectionist halted his wandering, his helmet turned to Sammy. The device’s bulb was dimmed, mild, illuminating the round mask over his face. It only lasted for a second, because the dark beast turned his head and pointed the light towards what looked like a cot by the wall.

“Is this... for me?” Sammy asked, voice small. The projector seemed to bob, up and down, as if he was nodding.

“Oh. Well... yes, thank you for not harming me,” he added once he found his words, sounding very grateful and a bit magged at the same time. “And for the shelter. It’s most kind of you.”

The Projectionist’s malformed arm lifted. Sammy flinched, but soon felt the cool palm on his bare shoulder, warily caressing it. He smiled, that little gesture feeling so colloquial and welcomed.

If he had had any doubts before, right then, Sammy was certain that none of his visions were false. He knew the one who had lead him to the safe room. The one who had shown him kindness when he had been kicked where it hurt the most.

Something was stirring inside him, where the pull from before had been. It was not malicious. It had no intent to harm, no falsely benevolent voice telling him to cause sufferance and havoc. It was like a warm embrace, promising him that things were going to get better. That he would remember who he had been. Who they had been.

And maybe, like that, they would be set free, at last.

But who knew what the price would be. Nothing came without a tag.

No coffin was sealed with just a nail. And Lord, he had the hammer right in his hand and the bolts in the other. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da, that’s it for now. I hope you’ve enjoyed this chapter and please, leave me a few words on it, I very much appreciate that. Thank you kindly for reading!  
> Until the next time, ta-ta!


	3. Chapter Three – A Hurtful Jest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mornin’! This was supposed to be a much longer chapter, but it made no sense not to split it in two, after going through it again. In any case, here we are with bit of development that might come as slow, but we’re getting there. Backstory can sometimes be sluggish, until it becomes a race.  
> I hope that you will enjoy this little chapter, thank you kindly for reading! Let me know what you think of this in the comments section, I’d love hearing your thoughts.  
> Without further delays, on with the yelling...

**Chapter Three – A Hurtful Jest**

The ache of standing still hasn’t quite left the hunching creature, but it was slowly becoming more bearable. The projector on his shoulders was heavy and ill balanced, straining his back and making every attempt to stay straight a battle. He moved from one bent leg to another, heavy on his large soles, in an effort to remain as silent and motionless as possible without having to seat, fearing the suffering would return if he allowed himself a moment of calmness.

On the dingy, ink splattered utility bed, a sleeping figure laid easily, head facing towards the ceiling and chest rising and falling peacefully. It was the masked person who had stopped the Projectionist’s rage, the one who had dulled the hurt ravaging his deformed chest and limbs.

He had said some words to him. Words that, at first, had made no sense to the buzzing microphones that had become the beast’s ears. Though, with his sorrow dulled to a manageable degree, the wheels inside the Projectionist’s head started spinning again.

The inky man had said a name and some kind words. He had thanked him. He had trusted him to get him through his lair, to a safe place. He paid no attention to the withering carcasses, the ink no longer claiming back the corpses after having their hearts pulled out. The ink man had just blindly followed him without questioning his motives.

The Projectionist's unrushed back-and-forth movements continued. It was hard not to topple over, with all that poorly balanced weight, but he was used to it by then. He had been doing it for a long, long time.

For how long? He didn't remember. Though it amounted to precious little, as there was a little shimmer that flickered in his periphery, forcing unexpected things into his otherwise blank mind.

A name. Some words and a name, spoken with great emotion.

What did any of that mean, the Projectionist wondered, for the first time forming a fully logical thought. He had no idea. Not too long before meeting the inky man, he had heard something in his head, voices accompanying a film rolling straight into his brain. What was that about? He had no explanation to that either.

All that he could do was stare at his peculiar visitor, passed out cold on the uncomfortable bunk, looking like a dark angel.

At last, the slumbering figure stirred back to consciousness, fine fingers twitching lightly against the rough bedding. The devilish mask was slightly askew, revealing a pointy chin and a deceptively delicate, yet strong neck.

His light was reflected brightly by the smooth, inky skin of the waking stranger. For a moment, the man looked around, seemingly not understanding where he was. A low screech, emitted from the round speaker that erected from underneath the Projectionist’s sternum, directed the former prophet’s gaze to him.

Sammy relaxed, recognising his merciful new companion. He must have stood there for a rather long while. It was hard to say for how long he had been asleep, but it had been so restful. The gentle light was shining on him, dulled not to hurt his eyes, and he couldn’t help his tired smile.

“Thank you for watching over me, Norman,” he spoke, sleepy voice like a melody. He hoped that the creature could hear him.

The Projectionist registered the sentence with a little nod, careful not to bend too much and fall forward. The chords that were connected to the back of the projector swayed behind him. The inky man shifted to look at them. His supple neck was revealed more, the protruding collarbone glistening and drawing attention to his powerful, naked chest, barely covered by the remaining strap that hadn’t fallen off his shoulder.

Light continued to flicker on his shiny black skin. The masked man looked down his body and began chuckling under his breath, the sound jutting out from his chest. “Oops,” he made sheepishly. He lifted the fallen strap and secured it back over his shoulder.

He adjusted his mask and lowered his feet to the ground, moving to a seating position on the hard bed that had allowed him the most grandiose sleep. The projector’s lamp remained directed towards him, bathing him in its light. “Is everything alright, Norman?” he asked with a tinge of worry, using that name again.

The Projectionist’s head merely craned, his gaze long and mind filled with the recollection of something he had once seen, but with different eyes.

XXXXX

_Music was reverberating loudly between the recording hall’s walls, where the band was performing._

_Just as usual, Norman was perched up in his booth, operating the projector. The reel of the newest cartoon was playing in the background and he followed it, making sure that it was synchronised with the soundtrack being recorded. He noted everything down, to know where they went, in case anything happened to the pellicle or if he needed to make adjustments._

_He was watching the scenes with only half a mind, his eyes wandering more often than not to the positively levitating conductor._

_Sammy Lawrence was practically high on his stormy cloud. He was directing the band with fervour, clearly irritated, being in one of his splendid streaks of unjustified anger. His entire energy was bottled up in his movements, seeming almost violent, and the band was following his lead._

_The simple act of Boris chasing after Bendy, who had stolen and eaten his sausage sandwich, dubbed by Sammy’s savage conducting, looked like the ever hungry wolf was intending to murder the little dancing devil and paint his face and muzzle with his blood. Maybe not to that extent, Norman guessed, because it wasn’t that much of a vicious song, but the conductor was vibrating with that kind of intent._

_Normally, Sammy was a calm and levelled character. Sarcastic, sometimes borderline rude when he’d had his tail ruffled, but otherwise harmless as a fly. He was more bark than bite, as to say, despite being a very convincing barker._

_Though lately, with all the strain and the insane deadlines, he started to crack. He had always been as thin as a stick, with narrow hips and the promise of shaped muscles hidden somewhere under his shirt, but not as slender as he was now. It was a terrifying affair to watch how rumpled his clothes got around his waist when he bent, underlining how slim he actually was. He was neglecting his basic needs, surviving on air and bad coffee, keeping himself awake with sheer perseverance._

_He didn’t allow himself to pass as ungroomed, still minding his overall appearance with the same rigour as before, more for preserving his pride than anything. But Norman knew him well enough to notice the little changes, after all that time of seeing him daily, for hours on end._

_The music director was just as bonny and dashing as always, his side-parted golden curls stylishly falling just right by his elegant brow. However, his hazel eyes were tired, their greenish shimmer turned to a murky faded gleam and the skin under them gained a bruised purple tint. Probably out of vanity, that imperfection was carefully covered up with powder, masking just how exhausted he really was._

_Oh, yes, to the untrained, naked eye, Samuel Lawrence looked quite fine._

_But nothing could possibly shield his worsened temper._

_Just to prove Norman’s point, from outside the recording room a loud bang resounded, right over a slower part of the tune. After that, a continuous sequence of thumps and clangs filled the space._

_Sammy’s soles clacked sharply on his wooden stand in front of the musicians, feet finally touching the ground after staying on the tip of his toes since they had begun recording. He motioned wildly for the band to stop, and everyone rushed to comply. They all looked at each other as the conductor dashed out of the music hall as if his legs were on fire._

_“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!” he yelled at the ones who were causing the ruckus, voice loud even over the commotion. “ARE YOU DIMWITS OUT OF YOUR MIND? DON’T YOU HEAR WE ARE RECORDING, FOR FUCK’S SAKE!”_

_He marched to the group of stunned workers. “I asked you a goddamn question!” he raged, looking absolutely mad, gesticulating with his baton like he was going to spear someone’s eye out._

_One of the handymen found some courage to face the musician. “Sir, we’ve been told to install these pipes-“_

_“Bloody fantastic, just what I needed! More pipes!” Lawrence exploded. “And you had to do it right now, when I’m obviously recording with the band? Or are you perhaps deaf?”_

_“Sorry, Sir, but we have a schedule-“_

_“No. Fuck your sorry and fuck your schedule, you hear me? Get out!”_

_Another worker pointed his fist at the bustling director. “Now, you listen, Mister, we ain’t insultin’ ye, we’re jus’ doin’ our job, an’ our job’s to install them pipes, ‘cause that’s what we’ve been told to do.”_

_Sammy twirled the conducting baton around as if it was a knife. At unison, all the workers took a step back. “I don’t give a damn if it’s the president who told you to install the pipes, he can go shove them up his arse for all I care! Right now, I want you to get the heck out of here, before I’m really losing my patience, and kindly come back after I’m done with the band. Have I made myself clear?”_

_“Sir-“_

_“I said,” Sammy repeated, voice so low it sounded like a purr, “have I made myself clear?”_

_The men nodded, reluctantly, and started to pack their tools._

_Lawrence let out a heavy breath. He loosened his vice grip on the baton and retracted his arm. “Just leave here what you have to and don’t worry about it,” he spoke, far more composed than before. “If there’s anyone complaining about your schedule change, just tell them to come to me. I’ll be here to tell them the exact things I’ve told you. Now, gentlemen, let us finish our recording and then we’ll be out of your hair.” With that, he spun on the soles of his winged tipped shoes, leaving the workers stomped._

_Inside the music room, the musicians were pretending that nothing had happened, even if their feelings were clearly written all over their faces._

_Sammy couldn’t care less about them and their worries. He was sensing the tension up to his teeth, with the turning of the studio into a veritable construction site. That was too much, it was getting ridiculous._

_He climbed back on the wooden pedestal in front of the band and patted his baton on the edge of the sheet stand. Murmurs echoed for a second, people shuffling back into position. Sammy made the best of the moment to look up at the projection booth that overlooked them._

_He could swear he saw Norman’s mismatched eyes watching him, and his glower softened a bit. The man was indeed looking down at him, making himself visible as he shifted to have some light reflected over his face. And then, as if a wave crashed over him, Sammy felt more at ease. He even cracked the slightest of smiles that dissipated just as fast as it had come._

_The band was waiting for him expectantly, to resume their work, so the conductor returned to them. Right when he tapped the bench with the baton again, the projector whirled to life, and they recommenced their interrupted session._

_....._

_The recordings were eventually done and the men finished installing most of the pipes, leaving the rest for the following day. Sammy was dreading just how many of those blasted things would be added to the already existing pile. He couldn’t help but wonder why on Earth they were having them installed._

_Good thing he had found a way not to be bothered by the pipes with his makeshift thinking room that he called a sanctuary, in the lack of a better term. But still, it was preposterous._

_There was some black thing flowing through the conducts, from time to time, and it looked like ink. Whatever it was, it was making a lot of noise, which was another wonderful thing that made it into his never-ending list of complains._

_Who needs that much ink, anyway? They were an animation studio, yes, and they used a mentionable amount of ink for drawing and writing, but why were they installing those pipes anywhere outside of the Art and Story Departments? The Music Department didn’t require them, where only Sammy and Jack actually used it for writing, along with whoever was transcribing their scores – who had a typewriter, so that one didn’t even need ink! In rest, all the others in their department combined didn’t consume an entire inkwell in a month. So then, why the hell was Joey frying Sammy’s nerves?_

_He sighed, loudly, and allowed his shoulders to slump. His back hurt, his head ached, and he was so emotionally tired that it was bothersome. He had planned to write more, because he was way behind with his work thanks to someone who had forgotten to tell him about the new scenes, yet he could barely concentrate on anything with his body pounding with exhaustion._

_One of his ever present suspender straps fell off, sliding down his shoulder blade to his arm. The rustle sounded obscenely loud in the silent room, otherwise blissfully quiet. It didn’t ease his headache._

_“Poked somebody’s eyeballs out their heads with that stick of yours, Lawrence? Thinkin’ where to bury the body, ain’t you,” a scratchy voice materialised in the numbing silence, surprisingly close to him._

_“Norman! Good God,” Sammy screeched, breath suddenly cut short. “You’ll startle me into the grave one day, you know.” He turned his head around, a stray wave of honey hair falling over his eye. He looked up at his visitor._

_“Ah, quit bein’ such a pansy, Lawrence,” Norman huffed._

_Sammy glowered. Mindlessly, he moved his arm up to retrieve the fallen strap, his collarbone protruding from underneath the hem of his pin-striped shirt. His sharp chin was pointed forward, accentuating the suave line of his neck. Norman looked right through him, very focused on ignoring whatever skin he was glimpsing._

_“So, Polk. What’s the matter?” the musician asked obliviously, once he secured the suspender in its usual place over his shirt. He didn’t need to lose his pants, even if they had jumped a bit at Norman’s scare._

_“None with me, oh no,” the projectionist responded, making a wide route around the musician, fairly out of his reach. He walked like he always did, a bit slouched because of his height, with his feet seemingly glued to the floor until they lifted to take another step. He was awfully aware of his measures, no matter how slim he was, always taking up a lot more space than presumed due to his long limbs._

_“Then?”_

_Norman crossed his stout arms over his chest, looking like a scolding parent. “Matter’s with you, sunny boy.”_

_“Me?” Sammy inquired, pointing a finger at himself. “How so?”_

_“A-yuh, Sammy, you. You done quite a number on those poor sods with the pipes.”_

_“Ugh, those imbeciles. Don’t remind me.”_

_“Mm, that ain’t gonna be an easy task, but fine. But, hear me out, Sammy, you’re gonna pop a vein or two if you keep on throwin’ your little fiery temper ‘round. Might even combust, an’, you see, the thing with fire an’ all these films, well... s’that they burn.”_

_“Oh, really. I wouldn’t have suspected.”_

_“Burn with a big blue flame, smellin’ worse than Fain after a day of rhymin’ in the sewers.”_

_Sammy chuckled, his face less severe than before. “Had a lot of experience with such flames?”_

_“Oh, no, I know how to do my job. But I’ve seen accidents. Nasty business.”_

_“Hm, I bet.” He shook his head. “Now that you say it, Norman, I guess I’ve been rather short-tempered these days.”_

_Normal laughed, sounding more like a wheeze. “Tiny-tempered, you mean.”_

_“Well... yes.”_

_“Good we agree on somethin',” the projectionist said, taking a moment to get a closer note of the composer’s face._

_They stood still, without talking, just looking at each other, an event that happened quite often with them. It was by no means uncomfortable, on the contrary. Sammy actually felt a little warm._

_That called for some air. “You know what,” Lawrence chirped in the silence, lopsided smirk resurfacing, “I know for a fact that you’ve come here to grab me for a smoke. Have you not, Norman?”_

_“Eh, sorta.”_

_“Of course you have. So, let’s go to the rooftops, what do you say?”_

_“I says you lead the way. Hopefully, you ain’t gonna get lost this time.”_

_“Fear not, Norman! I trust that you'll divert me towards the proper route if that comes to pass,” Sammy answered with a cheeky glint in his eyes._

_....._

_The stars were just as bright as any other night. The wind was cool against their faces, but it was such a great sensation after all those hours spent inside the studio, with little to no ventilation._

_They sat on an airing shaft, side by side but with a certain distance between them, and looked up at the sky. Norman lowered the hems of his horizontally striped shirt, pulling them over his forearms. Once that was done, he idly slid a hand into one of his trouser’s pockets._

_Sammy looked at the man who was blindly rummaging through his pockets in search of something. He finally extracted a beat up tobacco case that had seen better days, along with an abused match book. Norman offered the box to the other one, who merely shrugged as he pulled a cigarette out._

_“Reckon it’s gonna lessen the fuse?” Norman asked as he took a stick for himself._

_“Doubtfully,” Sammy retorted. “Worth the try, though. Thanks, Norman.”_

_“Sure,” was his reply. A singular match was lit and both men leaned over the flame, igniting their cigarettes at the same time. Norman waved his hand, extinguishing the match, then discarded it in the overused box, to throw it away later._

_They sat in silence, none saying anything. It was a good change of pace from the daily madness._

_Norman chanced a frugal squint at the shorter man, all a bundle of nerves. He was slightly more uncoiled, true, though not by much. Opposed to their usual dynamics, when the conductor made sure to stay in a place where Norman could see him clearly, Sammy was sitting in the range of his colleague’s bad eye._

_The projectionist’s peripheral sight on that side of the head was nowhere near as good as on the other, but Polk was definitely not completely blind in his right eye. He could somehow distinguish, albeit with some difficulty, how his friend’s willowy frame was twitching and how he was throwing him sideways glances._

_What was with him, it was hard to guess. The perpetual mystery of Samuel Lawrence, the most unpredictable man alive, lately._

_“Feelin’ better, Lawrence?”_

_“A tad, yes,” Sammy admitted, exhaling some smoke. “It’s just... oh, heavens, Norman, I do love music, I love writing it and playing it, but this? This is getting out of hand.”_

_“I know.”_

_“I mean, I get that we have to keep up with the Art Department. I do, I really do. But they are barely holding it together, with all their work, and they are four people! I am one. Obviously, I can manage on my own, but the problem’s Joey. He’s going to drive me insane with his changes, forgetting to tell me about deadlines, telling me that two hours are more than enough to come up with ten songs! He has absolutely no idea how much it takes to write a tune, record it, put it on the film. Yet, he omits to tell me that he has images done and changes something the moment I am finished and demands it done faster!” Sammy sighed, sounding defeated. “I shouldn’t be complaining to you, you’re not spared of his crap either.”_

_“Sure, but I ain’t got any problems with listenin' to you. Complain away, I’m all ears.”_

_Sammy smiled with chagrin, the skin at the verges of his eyes crinkling slightly. “Yes, complain our sorry little lives away, let us layout the drama.” He sighed, again, then took another drag from the cigarette. Norman followed his example, waiting for him to continue talking._

_“You know, Norman. I always wonder, where it all begun to get so wrong. So unnatural. How it was before people forgot the joy that the cartoons had once brought them, before this new war had started... But, whenever I think of it, I realise nothing of that isn’t at the core of the problem. It’s not them who forgot. People still watch cartoons, even now. It’s us who forgot the glee, the ones who make them.” He shifted to uncross his legs and lean on a side. “You know, Norman, the real problem lays with all these demands, more, more, always more. Never looking at quality, only at the quantity. It’s not how it used to be, back when we started, but those times aren’t coming back. Maybe they will, but not with Joey not listening to us, the creative branch. Despite all that... I can’t leave the studio, I just can’t. I get through this madness just by thinking about returning to my little happy songs. Yes, they might be demanded by the bulk, but I want my tunes to be good. Better than good. I always return to them, to make those who are still around happy with that blasted grinning demon, and do scores for his stupid adventures. Because that’s what I do, I’m keeping the demon happy.”_

_“You sure do.”_

_Sammy shook his head. “Lately... I just cannot keep it together, not anymore. Not with Joey taking credit for my work and stumping me day in and out. Believe me, Norman, I don’t think I’ve ever yelled this much in my entire life.”_

_“Ah, Lawrence, I gotta contradict you on that,” Norman interrupted. “You were burstin’ your bubble before this, too. Your buddy Wally Franks can confirm, an’ more than half the studio.”_

_“My buddy Wally Franks has his head up his ass,” Sammy quipped._

_“Well, you won’t be hearing me sayin’ no to that.”_

_With a chuckle, Sammy crushed the butt of the cigarette, rubbing the burnt end on the sole of his shoe. He abruptly turned to Norman. “How can you be this calm, really? To have no people unnerving you with what they’re saying, what they’re doing? Just go on about your business, not wanting to throttle them. Honestly, it’s a wonder, to me. How are you even pulling this off?”_

_Norman shrugged passively. “I ain’t pullin’ anything in any way, Sammy. I’m indifferent, s’all. All my life, I got all sorta comments, for this or that. Sure, this ain’t a solution, ‘cause you’re still as frustrated with’em as before, but the unnecessary remarks cease in intensity with time, till they’re null. When ignored, people tend to find another pebble to kick.”_

_“Sounds like you’ve had it rough.”_

_“I has it rough always, Lawrence. Never one to fit in, me, but never strived for it. Now that we’re talkin’ frankly, you gotta understand my situation. It ain’t exactly easy, bein’ the bastard bub of some rich white guy and the runaway black housemaid. I learnt to swim right through hardships, kept my distance when needed. Saves y’all lots of energy, believe me. It’s not worth it, fightin’ the windmills. Just let'em be. You ain’t never gonna win.”_

_Sammy crooked his neck, regarding the man with extolment. He was not one to turn the other cheek, but it never failed to amaze him how others could do it. Or maybe it was just his friend, who was definitely a better person than himself. “That’s admirable.”_

_“Nah, it ain’t. S’just some good ol’ self-preservation an’ no mood for anyone’s bull.”_

_The composer nodded apprehensively, his curiosity spiking. “I don’t think you’ve ever told me about any of this. You can continue, you know, if it sits right with you. The past can be... difficult, at times.”_

_“Sure can, it’s no secret. It ain’t much, if you wanna hear it,” Norman commented, slightly surprised by Sammy’s sudden interest._

_“By all means, please, continue.”_

_“Well, if that’s what you want... as I was sayin', my Mamma somehow got involved with her employer, I don’t know the exact details, but what I do know is she obviously got herself knocked up. She'd soon left the house where she’d worked at, to have me ‘way from the man who was supposed to be my father. I can’t say I don’t pity his wife, honestly, it must’ave been awkward to learn that your proper man’s been harassin’ the helpin’ hands, but that's their problem. Life’s life, and theirs ain't my business. My Mamma found herself a nice man who helped’er out while I was bakin’ in the oven, as they say. He owned a nice little bar, still does actually, an’ they built themselves a nice peaceful home I grew up in. Right now, my Mamma makes all sorts of preserves an’ sells them. She’s got this decuman fruit an’ vegetable garden, very well tended to. Oh, she’s got some mean recipes, I gotta tell you.”_

_Sammy smiled indulgently. “Mhm, how lovely. Go on.”_

_“Yeah, well. She’s gotten married to this man I’m tellin’ you about. He says I’m his son. I have his name in my documents, he made’em write I’m his when I was born, legitimate an’ all. We look absolutely nothin’ alike, but eh, least I don’t have a line in the birth certificate. He’s a nice family man, my Pap, he raised me like his own, never made any differences between us children. My Mamma had my sisters a while after, you see. As for me, I found some way to make it through, with my folks around me. I did what I could to help’em make it well. Helped my parents with the chores, my sisters at school, the likes. T’was hard, they’re fully black, not like me.” Norman absently rubbed his forearm, playing with the hem of his shirt. “I don’t know who he is, but the one good thing my real father’s done for me was to be white. Because of him, I can’t even be called tanned. It made things easier sometimes, the world’s strange like that. I’ve seen some disgustin’ things bein’ said and done, Sammy, but I made sure my sisters were sheltered from’em, as much as possible.”_

_He puffed some air through the nostrils. “Anyway, my sisters all got college degrees – actually, the lil’ one’s still in school, but she’s gettin’ there. I’m very proud of those girls, they really broke it through, though it was very hard. Heh, I remember, at some point, when there’d been a nasty draught and money was a bit tight, I worked three different jobs and the odd gig to support’em, make sure they lacked nothin’ and we had enough to pay for their tuitions. My folks didn’t even know about most of this, I managed to keep some arrangements under the doormat. But I ain’t got no regrets for those sleepless years, I wanted my sisters to make somethin’ good outta themselves, have papers to help’em advance. Never needed one, myself, never had the time for'em. I learnt my job by watchin’ the others do it, I always pick things up on the go. And, well...,” Norman shrugged, clearing his throat from talking too much. “An’ that’s all, really. Not a very interestin’ story, huh?”_

_Sammy looked down at his hands, biting his lower lip. “Not at all, I’m sure there’s plenty more to tell. Though, I admit, anything flows easier when you have your family surrounding you.”_

_“Sure does. Makes one feel like they belong somewhere.” A fond smile coloured Norman’s face. “Well, what about yours?”_

_“My family?”_

_Norman nodded slightly._

_“Hm...” Sammy hummed. “I must admit, I grew up in the jauntiest manner. Rigid governess, minimum interaction with people outside of necessity, etiquette uselessly being drilled into my head which has done me heaps of good because I barely remember any of it. Exactly what a child requires for the best upbringing to become a snob.” He rolled his eyes, tapping with the tip of his shoe. “I'm not looking for pity, don't get me wrong, but I don’t really remember if either of my parents has ever heard me playing any instrument... perhaps my mother? My father has never been too interested in me once I’d told him I wanted to become a musician. Or ever, actually. I didn’t see much of him, anyway. Didn’t care much about me, other than carrying the name forward, which I’m not exactly doing at the moment. Or having a respectable profession, as he calls them, which I also don’t have, according to him. I know that because he telephoned to tell me exactly this, as that was exactly what I wanted to hear after just graduating the Conservatory with magna cum laude. He’s a big lawyer with his own firm, you know, filthy rich, with a son he tries not to talk about. I think the only reason why he has yet to disown me is because it would tarnish his good reputation, poor him. Imagine the press talking, all his fop friends and their trophy wives, uuuh, I fear to imagine,” the conductor shuddered in pretence, evocating with a sardonic chuckle._

_“If you wonder how come I have such a glamorous background, my parents married because they are members of wealthy families and my mother’s brother and my father are doing business together. They thought they made the perfect match. They'd get to keep all the money in the same place and as a plus, they believed they had the best genetics to produce some brilliant, gorgeous spawn,” he added exquisitely, patting his very handsome cheeks and batting his eyelashes in mockery. “Perfect planning on their part. Makes any family reunion a jolly thing. And those with the extended family are even better! I especially love when I'm asked why I'm working this hard, can you imagine having a daily schedule? Why don't I just invest in something, the market is so low I can practically buy anything and make millions out of it! Or just do nothing, I have the means. Ah, I just adore this question."_

_"They've got different views, s'all."_

_"No, they're all just pricks, I'm telling you. I want nothing to do with their fortunes, I'm not going to kiss their feet to be fed scraps when they feel like it. I'm financially stable, most of my relatives aren't. Investments are feeble and unreliable, if you ask me. So no, thank you very much, I'l stick to having a job and maybe, one day, I will get to compose what the hell I want, for who I want."_

_"You do you."_

_Sammy nodded. "It's a bit sad, you know. My mother asks me how I’m faring, from time to time... She makes me believe she’d shed a tear, maybe even cry if I were untimely sent to them in a jar. She’s not a bad person, she simply doesn’t know what to do with me. She tries, always has, but it’s always been a bitter affair. Too many regrets and heavy words, and she’s only been caught in the crossfire between me and my father. I know she keeps clippings of me at galas and other social events from the newspapers. I’m sure she honestly cares about me, in her own way. However, I’m not entirely certain my father is very aware of how I look at the moment. My uncle is more of a father to me than mine has ever been.”_

_“It’s your father’s loss, not yours.”_

_The shorter man smiled, grateful. “I wish that was true, but thank you, Norman.” He turned his head to his friend, who was examining his slowly dying cigarette. “Still, you haven’t answered me, how you keep your cool.”_

_Norman shrugged. “How to say it to you, Sammy. It’s got nothin’ to do with how calm or not I am, s’just somethin’ that has to do with people not bein’ too interested in my business because they think I’m the bogey man, and how I don’t try to contradict’em on that. S’better they keep to themselves, I’m not gonna start changin’ my ways just to have some people takin' a shining on me. I don’t need that. I don’t need anyone breathin’ down my back, do I?”_

_“And aren’t you doing exactly that to them?”_

_Norman chuckled. “Nah, that’s precisely the thing. I’m just curious. Gotta keep myself informed, just in case. I don’t wanna be a nuisance, so I don’t get in people’s way. The visible way, I mean.”_

_“Oh, I know what you mean, trust me. Sometimes I have to wonder if you appear when someone says your name three times. You seem to be everywhere, but no one knows where!” Sammy let out a huff of laughter. “Heh. How strange, you see. I don’t think you’re a nuisance. We spend a lot of time together, right?”_

_“A-yuh, ’cause you’re a peculiar man, Sammy Lawrence, not ‘cause I’m good company.”_

_“Maybe,” Sammy made idly, clearly thinking about something else. He shuffled some more, finally resting on crossing his legs. He dramatically turned towards his friend. “Norman, I’ve been considering to ask you a question, for a while now.” He looked into his eyes. “I’m an artist.”_

_Norman’s bushy eyebrows lifted, intrigued by the abrupt change of topics. Though, the new one was showing an opportunity not to say anything more about himself, which he had never enjoyed, so he might as well follow the trail. “Far as I’m aware, yeah, you are.”_

_“Well, yes, of course. So. I’m an artist, therefore, I expect to hear something from my audience. Let us call it... feedback.”_

_“I appreciate your music, Sammy, if that’s what you wanna hear. But I thought you knew that already.” Norman crossed his long legs as well, mimicking the other man. He rotated his neck more, to see him better._

_Sammy shook his head, light curls bouncing with his movements. “No, no... It’s something else. Norman, I would like to know what you think of me.”_

_“Are you askin’ my opinion about you, is that?” How very humble of the composer, assimilating his persona with art. “You’re decent, I s’ppose,” Norman replied. “Told you a just tick ago, I’m surprised you hang around me, more than work requires, but that’s fine by me.”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_Norman clicked his tongue over his teeth, becoming irritated with whatever the conductor was trying to make him say. He didn’t quite have a grasp on the rules of this game. “You’ve got earmuffs on? What I mean, Lawrence, is that you’re the only one who comes to see me willingly, up in my booth. You invite me to your little hidey-hole you call a sanctuary, you ask me how I’m doin’ an’ what I think about things. Even go lookin’ around the studio for me, askin’ if anyone’s seen me! You laugh at my cracks, Lord knows why, an’ so forth.”_

_“For the love of it, not that again! I laugh at your jokes because I find them funny, Norman, for the millionth time! Surely, some other people also find them so, you just haven’t paid proper attention.”_

_“People?” The projectionist watched him as if he’d just had his marbles extracted and dissected on the table. “What people, Lawrence, those who look at me all strange an’ wonder if I’m alright upstairs? Yeah, ain’t no one laughin’, besides you an’ me.”_

_“And is it so bad, having me as the sole person who is entertained by you?”_

_“Nah, sure ain’t, told you just a moment ago, ‘cause I don’t care about people’s opinions. Never strived to appeal to anyone and I sure ain’t gonna start makin’ chit-chat with everyone in the elevator just for the heck of it. I’m a weird sheep to them, an’ that’s how it’s gonna stay. I don’t wanna seem rude, I’m just bein’ selective. I’ve got my projectors. I’ve got my reels and I like readin' books whenever I have the time._ _I need no people, oh no. It’s all dandy as it is. Really, Lawrence, I don’t understand why you’re insistin’ on this.”_

_Sammy straightened his neck, clearly offended. “Is that what you think of me? That you don’t need me?”_

_Flabbergasted, Polk took a double look over, rising his guard back up. “Huh? I don’t hear what record you’re playin’ there, Lawrence, ‘cause I said no such thing. Obviously I don't need to have you at my toes, you ain't a stray dog, but I like it when you’re around. I enjoy talkin’ to you. I ain’t made of lead and don't live in a tree, I do want to exchange words with others. Conversin' with you makes time pass easier. If it wasn’t the case, you wouldn’t even see me outside of absolute necessity.”_

_“Oh.”_

_Norman exhaled, dismayed. “Oh? Oh, what? Not the answer you sought?”_

_Sammy munched on his lower lip, moving his gaze away. “Well... no.”_

_“You sure sound disappointed, Sammy, an’ I can’t figure out why,” the taller man said, passing a hand through his thick, placid hair. It was already sporting a mentionable amount of salt in its pepper colour, despite his young age. He had always appeared and sounded far older than he really was, although that made no difference to him._

_Patiently expecting the moment when the musician would make up his mind on what he wanted to say, Norman leaned forward and placed his chin on the back of his hand._

_Sammy noticed the looks he was receiving, so he took another deep breath. “It’s... I’m acting rather childishly, I know. I actually wanted to tell you something, and I wasn’t exactly certain how I ought to proceed. Although, the way I look at it now, it will probably just make you uncomfortable, and me, a grand fool.”_

_Norman squinted his eyes. Sammy wasn’t one who could be considered consistent in explanations, but he was starting to lose the little bit of sense that he was making. “Why, afraid to creep out the creeper?” he jested, making light on the situation._

_“The... what? No, I don’t think you’re a creeper, good Heavens, no!”_

_“Ha,” Norman snorted. “You’d be about the only one. I don’t need your pity, just as you said you don't need mine.”_

_“No! Absolutely not! I refuse to hear such atrocities coming from you! You are a delightful man, Norman, I don’t understand why you have this opinion about yourself. People may talk, but they don’t know you.”_

_“And what, you do?”_

_“I... think so. I hope I do.”_

_Norman inhaled deeply. “You’re a really strange fella, Lawrence. Heh, whose callin’ the kettle black, now? Since I’m a delightful man an’ all.” He chuckled sorely. “I’ll be damned if I understand what’s goin’ through that head of yours, but I’ll humour you, ‘cause I’m afraid you’re gonna hurt yourself if you keep on twistin’ an’ shufflin’ like a fish on land. So, what is this big hush-hush you wanna tell me, that’s gonna make me run a mile? Mind we’re on the rooftops.”_

_Sammy gazed up at the sky, dramatic as you please. He bit the inside of his cheek, all the time staring at the stars. He spoke at last, solemnly. “I like you.”_

_“Oh?” Norman made, genuinely surprised. “I mean, I reckon it’s somethin’ to do with you, the artists, but I don’t get what’s so terrible about it. Unless you do. If so, I’d prefer my piece of quiet back, ‘cause I was fine the way I was before.”_

_“No, no, no, you don’t get it, Norman! I like you.”_

_“Nah, I get it, Lawrence, ain’t hard of head. Or hearin’, as a matter of fact. We’re sort of pals, you an’ me. After all this time, I supposed it was a given. No one spends so much time with someone they despise.”_

_“No, this is the thing!” the conductor wailed, voice small. He slid to the side of the ventilator shaft, and eventually lifted up. Once he was on his feet, he peered down at the taller man, who was seated still. “Norman... what I feel for you, it is... it’s not solely friendship.”_

_Normal chortled humourlessly, shaking his head. “Now, you sound odd. What, Lawrence, is it love?” He laughed, sounding like a rusty seesaw on a crowbar._

_“Yes,” Sammy replied hastily, breathlessly, face distressed and chin buried in his chest, like an ostrich hiding its head in the dirt. “Norman, I seem to have unwillingly developed feelings for you in the many moments we’ve shared together.”_

_In response to the statement, Polk just stared with his mouth hanging opened, blinking slowly. That, he had not expected. He then grinned, like he was hearing a very good gag. He was genuinely intrigued about the catch, looking at the expressive face of the other man. It was a very strange prank that Sammy was pulling, though it sounded elaborated. He might as well humour him. After all that build-up, the punch-line was bound to be good._

_“Ha-ha, nice swoonin’, Sammy! You had me there for a moment! No need to look so serious. I got you out of the department ‘cause I was sure you've fried your egg salad, but seems like you made a right fruit cake up there. Even waited this long to say it, chatted a bit on the personal side to take me by surprise. I admit, you almost fooled me! You’re somethin’ else, a damn fine musician an’ a good actor to boot, you!” He mocked applauses. “So, spill it, now. Who made you say this?”_

_“No, Norman...”_

_The technician waved his calloused hand. “C’mon, you can tell me, Sammy, ain’t gonna upset me! Some theatrical jest you’ve got goin’, but if it’s gonna prevent you from combustin’, I’m game.”_

_The musician placed a hand against his own cheek, drawing into himself. “No one made me say this, Norman... I’m not joking.”_

_Upon hearing the defeated sound of the composer’s words, Norman lost his grin. “You’re... not pullin’ my leg, are you?”_

_“No. And it wounds me that you think I am.”_

_The projectionist looked taken aback. His mismatched eyes were wide and incredulous. He wet his lips, not knowing quite what to say. This was getting weird, threading too close to some very uncomfortable thoughts he’d been having for longer than he would care to admit and certainly had no plans to ever follow them. In spite of that, when he noticed Sammy beginning to retreat towards the trapdoor that led back to the inside of the building, he found his voice, even more abrasive than usual. “Why?”_

_“Why, what?”_

_“Why would you say somethin’ like that? Why’re you doin’ this, Sammy? It isn’t amusing, spewin’ things like that.”_

_“No, but it’s all true. My feelings for you are heartfelt, Norman. You don’t know what a beautiful person you are, always so insightful and handy, even if something bothers you. You deserve more than people shunning you because they don’t understand you. I didn’t know it either, until I did, and... I realised there was more than just collegiality that I saw in you. It’s much more, and I really needed to tell you. Had to.” Sammy stared down, defeated, his nose pointed to the ground, its likeliness to a straight beak even more poignant. He was looking so pathetic, very unlike his usual flamboyant self._

_A harsh chortle erupted from the taller man’s neck. The surprise of his initial grimace turned into a soft look. “An’ here I was, thinkin’ Sammy Lawrence liked the birds. What a thing, ‘cause they all seem to like you, the way they’re topplin’ over when they see you.”_

_“Let’s not exaggerate.”_

_“I’m the one with the bad eye, but seems like I sees better than you do. You’ve always been a great liar to them, but be honest with yourself.”_

_The composer straightened, struggling to regain the upper hand. “Polk, there's absolutely no need to make fun of me or insinuate anything. It was clearly a mistake talking to you about this. You’ve made it clear enough. I got it, okay? Now, excuse me, but someone needs to write those stupid songs we’re recording and I certainly don’t have the entire night for that.”_

_“I like birds, too,” Norman perked up out of the blue, dazing Sammy into place. “Well. Actually, just the one.”_

_Sammy turned his head abruptly, some strands of his fair hair falling over his forehead, as if he had had his feathers ruffled. “And what does it have to do with me? I understand, no need to rub it in my face, yes? You may as well ignore this conversation, because I certainly don’t need to be humiliated more than I’ve already been,“ he ejaculated with spite, unable to keep his cool._

_Norman extended his hand towards the fuming man, brushing his fingertips against the fabric of his shirt. “Sammy... Don’t you realise just how much like a goldfinch you look, jumpin’ on your toes when you’re conductin’, like you’re gonna start flyin’ any moment? Always flickin’ your fingers, chirpin’ to your tunes and lookin’ like gold in the sun? ‘Cause I sure did. I always have half a mind on the projector, and the other on you. I noticed you glancin’ up from time to time, at my booth, and seen you smiling. And I suppose I’ve always wished t’was because you were lookin’ at me, no matter how foolish the thought was.”_

_“I was.”_

_“Now, I know.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“I...” The projectionist rubbed his forehead. “What’s really going on, Sammy? What’s with this charade?”_

_“It’s not a charade, Norman. I only wanted to tell you this, nothing more. I don’t expect anything from you. I’ve told you, it’s been eating at me for a while and I figured it would be more honest of me to tell you. We are still friends after all, right?”_

_Norman nodded at once. “A-yuh, sure.”_

_“Then, I’ve done the right thing. You deserve to know this, it’s... it’s only fair, okay? To let you know with what... degenerate you’re wasting your time with,” he spat, haphazardly throwing his eyes around the scene, finding the words disgusting in his mouth. “I’m sincerely sorry for taking it all on you. You don’t deserve my selfishness.”_

_The seating man sketched no gesture of accepting the apology, still stunned. He replayed the previous phrases, looking for indications, only to confuse himself further. The conversation they were having, or lack thereof, was too surreal to be veridical. Things didn’t go like that for Norman. Good, hard working Norman, ever so uneasy on anyone who bothered to have words with him. He wasn’t having any of the dreams that were hitting that close to the heart coming true, not ever. He’d never expected to have any of his sentiments, albeit unspoken, being shared by anyone that he really cared about. Especially not by that dashing artist, who was also a man._

_The projectionist swallowed thickly, searching for his lost air. “What do you want from me?” he demanded, deciding to wing it._

_Sammy inhaled sharply. “Norman... do you really mean this question?”_

_“Yes, Lawrence, I usually mean my questions,” Polk retorted curtly, losing his composure. “No one has no expectations after sayin’ something like this, so don’t you get prim on me. Tell me. What do you want, Sammy?”_

_The musician gazed at him, all conflicted. It was too late to play it safe, so he threw everything to the wind. “I would like to take you out. When you have the time.”_

_“I’ve got much the same schedule as you do. We work together most of the time.”_

_“I know that,“ Sammy nodded in understanding. Suddenly, something clicked inside his head. “Wait, wait, wait. Does it mean you want to, you know, go out with me? Are you certain?”_

_“Sure am,” Norman confirmed. “I’d like that. I’d, hell, I’d really like that, to be honest.”_

_Awkwardly, Sammy shuffled his fingers, unaware of what he was supposed to do with his hands. He couldn’t just look at the other man. He could feel himself getting redder, skin turning into the colour of molten gold._

_He gulped, mustering the courage to confront the result of his actions. Lawrence was overwhelmed by the realisation of his confession being returned, even in that strange manner, and it was so powerful, so very real. It wasn’t exactly a confirmation, but Norman would never play with his head like that. He was a good man, true and kind, no matter how harsh he appeared or sounded._

_It was indeed a beautiful sentiment, the only light in the darkness of the once cheery studio. He had never thought he would feel exhilarated by anything besides his music, which had lost its shine in his eyes with all the rushing he had to do to meet deadlines and all those horrible modifications butchering his best works._

_Right then, what Samuel Lawrence felt in his chest was hope. Pure, unadorned hope._

_Unsteadily, his eyes chanced a glance away from the tips of his polished shoes. He looked up and was surprised to see the lanky projectionist right in front of him, slightly hunched to have a levelled image of his face. His mismatched gaze was searching for something, and once he found it, Norman sketched a little smile, his orbs lighting up and glinting in the moonlight._

_It was impossible for Sammy not to return that mirth, so he smiled as well, all toothy and silly. Soon, it turned into a sheepish grin. His hands cupped the other’s arms, seizing up muscles that were hardened after lifting up the heavy projection machines for years, feeling so firm under his fingertips._

_Daringly, Norman bent even more, and placed a small, chaste peck on the corner of the musician’s mouth. He retreated hastily, to examine his face, still a bit unsure about the honesty of their talk._

_There was no need for uncertainty, from what he was seeing. Sammy was shining like a light bulb, his eyes gleaming like two twinkling gems, all because of his little gesture. His grip on Norman’s arms tightened, restricting his movements. At once, Sammy lifted on his toes, meeting his lips in a tender kiss. His hands sneaked around the taller frame, and large palms cupped his supple cheeks along with crooked fingers that carded through his soft locks, sweetly holding him near._

_They just stood like that, intertwined in their embrace, gently moving their lips and feeling each other breathing. It was so peaceful, a stolen moment when nothing happened, when they just existed in time, and it was perfect._

_When they reluctantly withdrew from each other and Sammy looked into Norman’s queerly matched eyes, he knew that he had found his happiness._

_For once, giggling like a half-witted fool didn’t feel wrong._

XXXXX

The Projectionist pointedly stared at the inky man, who was mindfully arranging his suspenders that were already perfectly fitted into place. They were surprisingly well cared for, as if they were cherished items to their owner.

He could still picture the musician wearing braces, never wanting to do anything with a belt. He vividly remembered how they felt against his fingertips, when he touched his shoulders, when they kissed...

Confused, the Projectionist drew a hand over the bottom of his shielded head, where his mouth should have been. Through his stained, sodden gloves, he could only make out a smooth surface, with no crevices. Just a sheet of lifeless material over a distorted form. However, there was a phantom sensation that lingered under the case, and he couldn’t quite place it.

It was as if he had seen it all before, snippets of something he had once lived. Not only himself, but that man, too, with his studied mannerisms, his miserly smiles, his sore temper and dangerously levelled voice that could paralyse a lesser being when it was directed with anger. But he recalled the beautiful things, too, like the light in his eyes and the white of his teeth as he grinned under the moon, when pretences didn’t matter anymore.

He wasn’t sure he understood what was happening, though that was not a surprise. How much lucidity can one expect when they’ve been awake from a trance for only a few hours?

Forgetting about his appearance, Sammy seemed to finally realise the distress his new acquaintance was experiencing. “Are you really alright, Norman? I don’t know how you can tell me what’s wrong, but you don’t seem fine, as much as being fine in here goes.... anyway.” He rose to his feet and treaded to him. He placed a comforting hand over the reel that was protruding from the junction of his neck with the shoulder. He softly rubbed the spot. “Are you hurt? If you are, show me where.”

The creature shook his helmet. He didn’t hurt, no more than usual. Actually, he barely felt any pain, the closer the inky man got to him.

“Oh... oh! Yes, yes, that’s good, you’re not in pain,” Sammy said, smiling behind his mask. “I was certain that you were hurt, but I’m glad I was wrong. The good type of wrong, right?”

‘A-yuh, the good type of wrong,’ the Projectionist faintly thought.

The inky composer seemed oblivious of his saviour’s inner turmoil. Frankly, the Projectionist didn’t know if it was an advisable idea to tell him about it. He might very well be hallucinating and projecting the newcomer’s voice over some random face, making up what he had envisioned. Of course, he could simply trail his ink tarnished hands over some clean poster and write what he had experienced, maybe receive some form of confirmation or denial, but...

No, the musician clearly had no idea about what was going on inside his head, and it was better. He would only make the sole being that had approached him and lived to talk to him uncomfortable. Such company was more than a simple commodity in there. Something so priceless just wasn’t worth throwing away over some insane sham.

However, the former conductor was persistent. “Norman, what is it? Have I said anything wrong? Have I upset you?”

The Projectionist shook his head again. He gingerly pushed the inky man away and turned his back at him, crawling his feet towards the exit.

He needed to resume his usual rounds, now that he had a charge to look after. He felt something was aloof amidst the twisted corridors and he had to check what it was. He had to keep his benighted companion safe from whatever might enter his lair, preserve his blissful ignorance.

Sammy bewilderedly gawked at the departing creature’s back, hoping he hadn’t done anything to drive him away. It was hard to find anyone friendly in that forsaken studio. And, after the images that had flashed through his head, he believed there was much more between them than words could say.

However, he stiffly watched how the Projectionist walked away from him, hunched and burdened by the heavy apparel over his head.

He wasn’t sure the other would understand, even if he told him, but Lord, did it pain Sammy to realise how much he missed seeing the creature standing straight, towering over him and making his feet go slack. Although, what hurt the most was that he was certain he was the only one remembering that, if those visions had been memories to begin with. They could have been some lucid daft dreams just as well, but... they hadn't felt like that. 

They felt real. Almost raw in their frankness. 

When the deposit’s door closed behind the great walking lumber, the former prophet was left alone with his thoughts. He had no idea what to make of them, because he didn't understand what was happening inside his head. It was frustrating.

Sammy willed himself to cease his mental churns, maybe he would find the guidance of the voice that he had lost, that was no longer whispering into his ears.

And so helpful that was. He heard nothing besides the ink clogging his brain. 

Damn, wasn't silence obnoxiously loud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da, that’s it for now. The next part is going to be uploaded soon, so please stay tuned! Thank you very much for reading and I hope you are enjoying this story. As usual, I’d really love hearing your thoughts on my work, and please, leave me kudos, if you'd like!  
> Until the next cartoon, ta-ta!


	4. Chapter Four – A Duck and a Pigeon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mornin’, everyone! This is the forth chapter of this story. I hope you will enjoy it, thank you for your patience! Please, let me know what you think about it in the comment section below, feedback is kindly appreciated. Thank you for reading!  
> This is a sweet little chapter that leads to the thicker chunks of the story, so bear with me. No special warnings yet, apart from some really irrational thoughts, but we’re getting there. Please, enjoy!  
> That being said, on with the shadows on the walls...

**Chapter Four – A Duck and a Pigeon**

_They were supposed to go out that night, to some nice, quiet restaurant that Sammy had suggested. Nothing too conspicuous that could raise questions on exactly what they were doing, not cosy enough to be considered a family's Sunday after church choice, and not quite the sort of place where a bar fight would erupt when a match was on air. Something that fitted perfectly in between._

_Not that it mattered anymore, really. It was evident that they wouldn't make it on time, not even for its closing, given just how much work they still had to get done._

_Both of them had received so many added duties to fulfil that apparently had popped up from the Neverland, it was absolutely ridiculous. They had picked up that one day when work was supposed to be lighter, a Friday afternoon after a week that had its most urgent deadlines already met. Yet, wonders of wonders, there they were, still at the studio, doing overtime that, let's face it, was not ever going to be paid._

_It was around four o'clock in the morning when everything was eventually wrapped up after strenuous efforts. Inside the little so-called 'sanctuary', both men were rubbing their tired hands, one rolling his wrist after writing too much and the other uncoiling his tensed fingers after twisting them inside the film reels._

_"Some date it was," Sammy grumbled under his breath. "Should have expected to have the fabulous Joey Drew waltzing in and ruining all our plans."_

_"He didn't exactly know of them, did he," Norman commented, discarding his dirty gloves in the tool box._

_"Why, you think he would have cared? Came in to offer an apology, shed a little tear, say he'd make up for it?" the musician asked, irritated. He frowned, shaking his head. "I am sorry, it's not your fault."_

_"Nah, sure ain't," Norman agreed from his little cushion on the floor, where he liked to seat when Sammy was working and he had to go through the film slides. Just like a big tired hound leaning on its paws, the projectionist rested his head on top of his knees, looking a bit like he was peeking from behind a garden fence. "But it ain't too bad, am I right? We're together, don't matter where we are."_

_"Yes, Norman. You sit on the floor and I'm on the desk chair. Together at the studio, how very spectacular." Sammy's glower deepened, contorting his smooth forehead. "Of course it does matter! That most definitely is not how I had envisioned our evening out. Not even in the slightest."_

_"Me neither." Norman shrugged passively. "Well, to be frank... I hadn't envisioned anythin'."_

_"No?"_

_"A-yuh, nothin'," Norman confirmed. "I just hoped you ain't gonna pat my back and say I've been pranked, or somethin'."_

_Sammy grunted through clenched teeth. "Norman Polk, I swear!"_

_"Hey, don't you go raisin' your octaves on me, banjo boy, you got others to shout at. I'll have Franks wrapped up nice for you, put a lil' bow on top of his head an' all, if you feel like yellin'." He scratched his chin, thinking for a moment. Pouting his lips in concentration, Norman drummed his knuckles against his bony knees. "Actually, I think I got an idea."_

_The conductor smarted up. "Hm?"_

_"How tired are you, Sammy?"_

_The shorter man considered it for a second. "How do you think? Dog tired. You?"_

_Norman smirked. "Likewise. So, since we're all bein' doggish at the moment, what do you say we take a walk?"_

_"Hmph," Lawrence puffed though the nose. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. "Now that you say it, that doesn't sound too shabby, I suppose."_

_The taller man lifted from the cushion on the floor and beckoned the other one closer. "Right then, let's do that. An' see what happens."_

_..._

_They walked around aimlessly, talking about little nothings. Exhaustion washed over them and was left behind with every corner they cut. Certainly, it didn't feel like anything remotely romantic, not even close to it, but it was nice. Comfortable and cushy, perhaps the way old couples felt when they took a stroll together._

_Feeling very confused by that particular similitude, Sammy followed Norman's footsteps, standing by his side with his hands in his pockets, looking around the fairly empty streets. There was still a measurable amount of people passing by them, but they paid them no heed, keeping their chat going._

_After a while, Norman appeared to be steering them somewhere. Where exactly, probably only the man knew. Though, in all honesty, the musician had faith in his friend. He was curious. It took him so little to lose himself to the pleasant conversation and company. He didn't really care where they were going, at that point, as long as he would still be able to hear that rumbling voice that easily put a motor to shame. He enjoyed its broken tune, one that he had tried to reproduce on his instruments, but had yet to find the proper note._

_After a while, they came face to face with a shop's display window. It appeared to be a dinner with a red and blue sign reading 'Nancy's', and it was evidently closed. The only person who was visible from behind the glass was a woman polishing the counter._

_She seemed to have noticed them, because she looked up. Norman waved and silently asked if they could enter._

_The woman nodded, so he dragged an inert Sammy by the strap of his suspenders._

_They passed the threshold of the little, colourful dinner, everything looking spotless. The chequered floor tiles were shiny and clean, clearly having been washed recently. The two men made their way through the main room, careful not to disturb the perfect order._

_"So, what's it you're doin' here, lads, peerin' at my dinner at this unholy hour?" the woman asked, her voice like one of a mother scolding her children for coming home late._

_Sammy stopped at the sound of that voice and remained behind. However, Norman paced forward. "Excuse us, Ma'am, we were just passin' by and saw your place bein' lit. See, my friend here s'not from the city, an' I haven't seen him in ages! He said he wanna see the New York lights during the night, an' we've gotten carried away with all the walkin' an' talkin'."_

_"Lots of catchin' up with your friend, huh?"_

_"Yes, Ma'am, lots," Norman admitted and pointed to Sammy, who was absently taking in his surroundings._

_The woman curled her lips, clearly suspicious of the lie. She could have pressed on, but seeing how the tall man was uneasily waiting to be kicked out, she smiled, not pushing with more questions. Whatever they were doing at that hour, they definitely didn't look like gangsters or people set on doing the devil's work._

_"Ah, I know you," she made after a few moments, pointing to Norman. "Oh, yes, I know you, Mister! You're that nice lad who's talkin' all kindly to my servin' girls, like a proper gentleman, an' saying he likes my pies, ain't ya?" She giggled. "Of course you're both welcomed, you and your friend! I've just put a chocolate pie and another one with sour cherries in the oven, they should be done soon. Just take a seat wherever you want, I'm going to bring you boys some fresh coffee. I was just makin' some, you're right on time! Be back in a tick," the woman added and pointed to the two men that were still standing up. "Off you go, boys, make you'selves right at home," she said and disappeared behind a double door._

_Sammy looked at Norman, who was scratching his arm sheepishly. "Oh, you charmer," the composer chipped, voice all mirthful._

_"Just sit somewhere, Lawrence," the projectionist grunted._

_The musician chuckled, picking a table by the window. "Since I am here to see the New York lights and all," he explained, earning a scowling look from his friend. "Come on, lighten up, you grouch," he continued, the frown on Norman's face deepening. They both sat down, facing each other across the table._

_With a meek smile, Sammy trailed his hand under the tablecloth, towards Norman's thigh. "I'm joking, you grump, don't take it personally. I'm glad you knew this place, I doubt there is anything decent opened at this hour. And it's not even opened here yet, it was that lady taking pity on us."_

_The hand from his knee departed, joining its counterpart on the table and leaving Norman unexpectedly fluttered. "A-yuh, it's not exactly the polite hour to be around, takin' strolls."_

_"Certainly not, but we're not taking a stroll, are we, now? We are on a date, Mister Polk," Sammy uttered with a look of complicity in his eyes. He leaned forward. "And I have to admit. You have my curiosity regarding those pies. It smells good in here."_

_The woman from the counter returned, bringing a big pot and two ceramic mugs with her. She filled the mugs and left the kettle on the table over a thick cloth. "I'm leavin' you the coffee, so you can have as much as you'd like. I've got to watch the pies, honeys, don't want them getting too crispy."_

_"Thank you, Ma'am," the men said at unison, and the woman smiled kindly._

_"I'll leave you boys to your talkin', call for me if you need anything." With that, they were left alone._

_"Yes, nice lady," Sammy sung dreamily. He took a sip of the steaming coffee. "Mmm," he mumbled as he swallowed. "It's actually rather pleasant in here."_

_"Mhm," Norman hummed along, looking at Sammy's relaxed face. "I hope you don't mind the change in plans."_

_"It's absolutely fine, Norman. You know, I've heard some scarecrow saying something that stayed with me... yes, I remember it, now... We are together, so it doesn't really matter where, right? I think that's how it went," the conductor whispered, voice all lavender drops._

_"That's about right," replied the gruff man, swallowing drily at the tone._

_Sammy smiled in his coffee, enjoying the coy response he got. "So, you come here often?"_

_Norman shook his head. "Not really. Occasionally. It's not exactly in my way, I don't live anywhere near here, but I like the nearby park. It's quiet by the lake, an' there's a whole lotta ducks."_

_"Ducks, you say? I haven't seen any," the musician trailed on, gazing through the window to make sure he had seen right._

_"Sure, 'cause they're all asleep now. It's too early for'em, but I'm gonna show'em to you when we leave. If you wanna see'em," he quickly added._

_"I can hardly wait."_

_Their eyes locked for a second, until a shadow passed by their peripheral sight. They looked outside the window and noticed a big pigeon strutting daintily. "Why, that is not a duck, but it's a bird," Sammy commented. "You know, I still find myself intrigued by something else you've said. On the rooftops."_

_"You do?"_

_"Oh, please, don't act so surprised, Norman. I do listen when you are talking," Sammy retorted. He leaned back, on the cushion. "You said that I look like a bird. Well, not that particular bird, I hope," he pointed to the fat pigeon, already harassing some uninterested female pigeons. "Though, I must give the little guy some credit, he's got some nerve, going after three ladies of his kind at the same time. But, definitely not like him." He shifted a bit on his seat, his cheeks catching the light and underlying their straight contour. "I don't fancy myself with that bloke's behind, and my hair's blonde," he stated sassily. Teasingly, he flipped his head to the side, making his honey loops bounce._

_"Your hair ain't all that blonde, Sammy," Norman intervened._

_Sammy made a face, his pale skin tightening. He pointed one of his long slender fingers to his golden curls. "Oh, shush now, there are more tones to the spectre. I was white blonde as a child, you know, but it darkened with time. Oh, time, how it affects us all," the composer made sagely, twirling a strand of hair between his fingertips, punctuating that it was, in fact, blonde._

_"Huh, you could say that again, Goldie Locks," Polk grumbled into the mug._

_"You have the hair like that pigeon's plumage, though," Sammy noticed in an artistic stroke, eying the bird. "Not quite black, not exactly grey. In between. Like sesame seeds on bagels."_

_"Aha. You're just sayin' I'm gettin' old, only fancier."_

_"Pff, you're about my age, and I am definitely not old. Don't ruin my contemplation, Polk, I'm being poetic here."_

_Norman chuckled throatily. "Yeah, about that... You were right, Sammy. You should leave the poetry to Fain."_

_"Ugh, you swine, not appreciating art, be it in rough shape or diamond," the conductor grumbled, feigning offence as he pushed the other's leg with the tip of his shoe. His smile curled up when he noticed the lady bringing two plates with three slices of pie crammed on each of them, all steaming._

_She laid them in front of them, along with cutlery. "There you go, boys! I couldn't help it, I put you some cream and mushroom pie in there for you, too. It's the one by the side, didn't want it to mix with the sweet ones. M-m-m, all just out of the oven! You let'em cool a bit, boys, then dig in!"_

_Sammy was already eating the pastries with his eyes. "Ah, they smell divine, Ma'am."_

_"And they taste like heaven, my dear Sir, if I say so myself!" the woman declared proudly as she put the little check booklet on the side of the table. "I'll let you two to them. Don't worry, the salty one's on the house. Ain't every day I get customers before opening."_

_"That's very generous of you, Ma'am, thank you," Norman said, already on the way to pick up the small booklet. "We'd better see to the check now-"_

_"What's that I'm hearin'? Lad, don't upset me, you eat in peace, have your chit-chat! You can stay here as long as you want, I know you two ain't gonna rush off without payin', even if I'm not here. You look like two good boys. Now. Just wave me if you want anything else, hear me? Or give me a shout, I'll have to watch the morning pies until my girls come to work." She smiled sweetly and, once again, disappeared in the dinner's kitchen._

_Sammy's grimace was drawn into a glower. "You do realise it's on me, right? I am the one who asked you out, even if the plan was very different. So, don't you dare take my spotlight away, Mister Polk. And hush, before you say anything that doesn't sound like 'yes, Sammy'," he said, trying to imitate Norman's granulated voice._

_The taller man laughed. "Yes, Sammy," he replied, attempting to reproduce the far off imitation that his friend had provided._

_"That's what I like to hear. Now, Norman, you must satisfy my curiosity. How exactly do I resemble a bird?"_

_Norman exhaled, loudly, and looked at the steaming dishes on the table. "I don't know, Lawrence, you're like a toothpick with an attitude. Flapin' wings and singin' all day. That's pretty much a bird to me."_

_"Ah, ever the Prince Charming," Sammy jollied sarcastically. "How come you don't have a flock of little ladies behind you, it's a wonder."_

_"Precisely because of my 'charm'," the other replied, mimicking the quotation marks. Sammy's eyebrows quirked. "Don't give me that look, Lawrence, you know precisely what I'm sayin'. But that's your problem, 'cause you're the one choosin' to go out in the middle of the night with the one who managed to scare the neighbour's goat when he started laughin' at some lame joke."_

_"Really?" Sammy asked incredulously. "You have, um, scared a... goat."_

_"A-yuh, heard that right. Poor goat gave no milk for over a week," Norman relayed. "My Mamma told me off big time, that I shouldn't go scarin' the animals, that it was rude, that they have feelings. Sure, I ain't denyin' they do, but it was unintentional. Who's that much of a lunatic to purposely frighten them? I ain't. Funny thing, though, in case you've ever thought animals are dumb – another goat started mimickin' me. I think they had a feud or somethin', the billy seemed to like the scared goat better. The other goat must have been jealous."_

_The conductor dried his eyes from his sudden burst of laughter. "Oh my, how horrible!"_

_"Oho, you can't begin to imagine it. They got to be separated in different barns, had some ugly fight marchin' on, full speed! That's goats for you. Not the brightest of animals, but they provide great amusement."_

_"So, you grew up on a farm? You've mentioned something about your mother's garden."_

_"Not exactly, but down South, everythin's a glorified farm. Bein' around animals was inevitable." He shifted a little. "I gather you're a city boy."_

_"Mhm," Sammy hummed along. "I don't know much about the great outdoors, but what I do know is that I don't fancy mud, nor whatever is happening when goats get lovely with each other, if you understand my drift."_

_Norman chuckled. "It's anythin' but lovely, trust me. My lil' sister started cryin' when the neighbour's goats were in the matin' season and bein' awfully dovey out of the sudden. She thought they were gonna kill each other, she came to me cryin' and beggin' me to save them. I had to have some very interestin' talk with her later, after I'd hauled her back home."_

_"It must have been mortifying."_

_"I don't know about her, but I sure learnt that I should gather the girls when things got all hanky-panky, and had a lil' chat with the neighbours to mind their damned goats. That talk still gives me the shudders."_

_Sammy picked up his fork, tantalisingly checking if the pie was still too hot to be edible. "You don't sound very fond of them."_

_"The neighbours? They're good people, have some nice daughter, too. Their goats? No, I can't say I was too excited they were bein' raised solely for the milk. I still picture them charred real good an' dipped in Mamma's mint sauce, the wooly mongrels."_

_With a smile, the man on the other side of the table took a bite from one of the pies and hummed pleasantly. "Mm, Norman, before you dip any goat chops anywhere, you have to taste this. It's really, really good. The filling is incredible, and I don't think I've ever tasted such a crispy pie sheet before."_

_"Well, that's why I thought we oughtta stop here."_

_"Mhm, now I understand," Sammy agreed, tasting another piece of pie. His eyes closed in bliss, then opened widely. "Oh, this one's even better!"_

_A big grin formed on Norman's face, reaching his eyes. His thick eyebrows lowered over his shinny orbs, enjoying the rare sight of the other man being so happy over so little._

_Sammy noticed that. He had to keep himself tightly in check not to blush, feeling himself warming up. Instead of preening like a peacock, he plunged forward, clutching the fork and the knife_ _in his hands, and went straight for Norman's unsupervised p_ _ies. He quickly cut a small bite from the nearest of them and brought it to his mouth. He munched it with a mischievous smirk, then swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. His expression turned quizzical at Norman's slight frown, pretending not to understand. "What? I'm hungry and I'm not letting any of these great pies go to waste just because you are lost in contemplating some neighbours' daughter."_

_One of the projectionist's eyebrows lifted at the wording. "I ain't contemplatin', I was just recountin' somethin'. Why, suddenly jealous over some gal you don't even know?" he teased, and almost immediately regretted it._

_"No, I added it for the effect."_

_"Precisely my point, then," Norman remarked and lifted the fork to his mouth, preventing himself from adding anything more stupid. Sammy, for all his air-headiness, was being very attentive to what his colleague was saying._

_Warily, Norman chewed slowly, looking at his friend who was savouring his slices with gusto, as if he had not eaten in a very long time. Which made sense, they had worked since the morning, barely taking a break to stretch their bones._

_With every little happy chew of Sammy's, another set of teeth pierced Norman and pulled out his flesh. Sharp fangs punctured his throat, made out of incredulity. Everything felt too natural, unfiltered, almost unreal. Just too good to be true. By the looks of it, Sammy seemed to actually enjoy their makeshift date, in a dinner where the elegantly constructed musician looked about as misplaced as an elephant in a china shop, simply taking in the atmosphere and letting himself freed from his usual bitterness as he chewed another small bite._

_And there was Norman, suddenly too conscious about his inadequacies, in a way he had never been before, and definitely not in front of the music director._

_He had never really cared about anything in particular, and definitely not about anyone's opinion. Despite all that, he honestly didn't want to muck things up, not with Sammy. He didn't understand the reason, but there was something so alluring in seeing him like that, calm, content, so mesmerising, and feeling him lightly bumping the tip of his shoe into his leg and then retracting it with a tantalising smirk._

_He had never been sentimental, but Polk sincerely hoped he could make the composer smile again, like he had done on the rooftops, and talk to him like they had on the way to the cosy dinner. But right then, sitting in front of him at the table, he was beginning to question how they had ended in their situation. What if it all proved to be some cruel hoax, even if Sammy had assured him it was not. And even if the conductor truthfully cared about him, Norman dreaded the moment when the other would inevitably take up his toys and leave him behind, once he realised who he was pursuing. That was bound to happen at some point, they just had to give it some time._

_The studio's projectionist was not_ _a dreamer. He knew things. And, most importantly, he knew himself._

_What on Earth were they doing together?_

_"Norman," Sammy spoke with concern etched into his sleek features. "What are you thinking about so hard?"_

_Polk's black and blue gaze snapped up. "Ah, nothin' much," he blurted casually, if that was possible. "I was just wonderin' how come you're not hitched? Or, you've got someone?"_

_"Yes," Lawrence deadpanned as he swallowed whatever he had been chewing, his face suddenly devoid of any emotions. "I've got a wife and five little children. And one on the road." He looked to his left side in consideration. "No. Make it two on the road. Just for the heck of it." He rolled his eyes and sighed, his mood darkening. "Seriously, Norman, what exactly do you want me to say?"_

_The projectionist made a face, wanting to kick himself. "Nothin', I was just askin'. I've never seen you with anyone before."_

_"Now that you say it, I haven't seen you either." He pointed a finger at the taller man. "You look like the kind of guy who would have married his childhood sweetheart and would have at least three kids. And I am saying it honestly. You have a face that children adore, I'm sure."_

_The heterochromatic eyes of the projectionist rolled with emphasis. "I'd made my sisters cry on Christmas once, when I was installing the lights in the tree and got to test'em. I'd read them a story about a monster stealing trees from people's houses, and they thought I was it, comin' to snatch our Christmas tree. You can only imagine how much children adore my face, if my own sisters burst into tears upon seein' it."_

_Sammy chirped. "Don't cut yourself short, it must have been the lights that startled them. I am certain your sisters love you, even if you seem to only have stories with them crying because you did something." He smiled indulgently, glad to have snapped his partner out of whatever meditation he had fallen into. He was behaving a bit off. "How many sisters do you have, anyway?"_

_"Three," Norman replied. "Latisha, Tiffany and Yvette. They're good, smart gals."_

_"I'm certain they are. I'd love to meet them, one day. Of course, if you don't toss me away before we are even starting anything."_

_"We'll see about that."_

_Sammy hummed idly in response, returning to his pies. He mused about the laws preventing him from giving Norman a good smack over the head and a kick in the ribs, if he didn't understand from the first blow. He desperately needed to tell him to pull himself together and stop doubting his intentions. The man was behaving like a dimwit, in spite of Sammy knowing for a fact that he was very intelligent and sharp._

_They had eaten together at the studio on uncountable occasions, talked about all sorts of subjects, spent hours upon hours together and nothing bad had happened. Every little moment shared in each other's company had only determined the conductor to become more and more smitten with the strange, quick witted man who was his friend. Made him want to get to know him better, even intimately if the other allowed it. He desired to be held by those strong arms he had seen lifting heavy loads as if they were nothing, to be swept off his feet in their gentle embrace as he stared speechlessly into those eyes that dared him not to look into them, otherwise he would get lost in them. Snuggle into the other's warm body and listen to him speaking hoarsely, hearing his heart beating as he laid his head on his chest._

_Yes, Sammy was very aware that Norman was a most marvellous person and he had some very vivid ideas about what he wanted to do with him in private, but said man was making it very hard to talk about something that would not rivet into why they had gone out in the first place and how they matched like oil and water. Though Sammy started to believe that the one being oily was the projectionist, who struggled to slip through his fingers for reasons beyond his comprehension._

_Not even in his wildest dreams would he have imagined that Norman would be that set on making himself the big bad wolf and trying to get him off his hook. The composer was confident that his friend hadn't lied to him, that his feelings were true. He was not doing it on purpose, that much was obvious. He wasn't cruel. Probably, he was used to a very different treatment. After all, even Sammy, who only saw what he liked to see, had noticed that his date wasn't exactly one people fawned upon._

_That didn't matter. He wanted to be the one who went against the current, because he believed it was worth it. The dumbass needed a wakeup call to shrug that unrest off and they shall be golden._

_Therefore, shifting in his seat so he was displaying the side of his face which he knew for a fact that it best favoured him, Sammy regained his seductive smile. He hadn't lived under a rock, he had taken women out and knew how to woo someone right out of their clothes – and remarkably fast, at that, because he rarely had much time to waste on such frivolities. Never done that with men, but how different could it possibly be? He hoped not too much, as Norman was pretty much like a boulder right then and he had no idea what to do to animate him. Though, somewhere deep inside, he had faith that he would crack him. The silly sod was clearly enamoured with him._

_'To hell with it,' Sammy thought, his lips pouting only slightly, to bring out their form. He leaned forward some more. If he hadn't been that much into the moment, he would have probably realised he was close to climbing over the table._

_Poor Norman was doing his damndest to ignore his friend's conduct, keeping himself occupied with his spiralling thoughts. He frankly liked Sammy, but he had told himself so many times that getting even near him was going to be at most a feverish dream. He had drilled that so deeply into his brain to the point that now, when said man was actually in front of him and nearly sprawling himself on the dinner's table in an attempt to capture his attention, he had no idea what to do with himself._

_He remembered how easy it had been when they were merely working together and being friendly. When he would only have to listen to the composer blabbing about this and that, and simply grunt in response. Just admiring him from afar and then feeling ashamed of himself for pining for such a dazzling man._

_"You're looking very handsome, Norman," Sammy spoke sultrily, his voice a low purr. "I thought you should know that."_

_Norman grimaced awkwardly. There went the silence and his self-cornering. "Err... thank you," he stuttered. He wanted to say that they perhaps should take their following date to an ophthalmologist, but he wasn't entirely confident of anything like that ever happening. All had started very nicely, but he had made the mistake to allow himself to analyse. Poor planning on his part, he had dug his own grave._

_Sammy swallowed air. He had expected a proper reaction, not that half-assed retort. However, he twirled his fork, trying to appear unaffected. It was going to take a while, and he supposed patience was the key._

_"You, too," Norman finally spoke, frustrated with his incapability. Whatever was going through his head, he declared it as absolute horseshit and discarded it quickly. He adopted a little smile that relaxed his face, driving him out of the doubts. He was a grown man, not some spooked kid behind his mother's skirts. He had been with others and had always been perfectly gallant to them, but Sammy had a way to stun him. To perplex him, and quite uncomfortably so._

_Maybe he should just take the other's example and say whatever came first, not munch on lines until they were sour. He had never been good with words, there was no way he could possibly polish anything, so why even try._

_"You always do, even after a long day," Norman added, his mood lifting up like a sunrise. He placed a finger against his cheek, contemplating. That sounded surprisingly nice to him, so perhaps he wasn't all that hopeless. "Even when you're tired, you shine like a firefly."_

_True to the words, Sammy lit up and toadied on his spot. He looked like a little proud spring chick in its nest, Norman noted, and he smirked, too. How beautifully t_ h _e musician could smile. "You're a bit like a twinklin' star, Sammy," the projectionist continued, enjoying the sight in front of him._

_Instantly, Lawrence was filled with emotion, mostly due to the compliment and partially because he wasn't going to break his arm beating his far stronger friend to snap him out of whatever had gotten into him. He trailed his hand under the table once again, touching Polk's knee. He didn't want the gesture to be visible, only intended to be sensed by the receiver. "I'd love to be able to guide you, Norman, like you did that night for me. When you've shown me the night sky. I thought about it many times, you know. You've shown me the most beautiful thing there is, when I had yet to know that it existed."_

_Norman chuckled, his smile turning lopsided at the remembrance of that night. "A-yuh, city goose, a starry sky's always a pretty sight. All it takes is to look up, an' there it is."_

_"No, you silly moth," Sammy said, voice barely above a whisper. He shifted forward, capturing the other's hand under the tabletop. "It was you. Your face, your smile, your voice, your touch. Just you."_

_Norman squeezed his hand. It was slightly smaller than his and much thinner, the long delicate fingers entwining with his hard worked ones, fitting together almost too well. It was perhaps the most cherished memory he had ever stored in his mind from then on. What a fool he had been to leave himself prey to over-thinking._

_Sammy simpered with feverish eyes roaming over his partner, and tenderly caressed his larger palm._

_Later, when the sun was rising above the lake, the two left the dinner, thanking the nice lady owner who had allowed them to stay there. The woman was all flushed with the praise they offered to her pies, and asked them to come back soon, when she would make them one of her mother's prized recipes, just for them._

_Walking close to each other, the two men went to see the promised ducks, who were just waking up after a good night's rest. Sammy smiled brightly as he pointed to the colourful birds that were croaking and dipping into the water, acting like at least half his age. Unable to escape the mirth, Norman watched him with barely hidden glee. He just couldn't believe his luck._

_Sammy grabbed his hand when they reached a darker alley, smirking sweetly. The projectionist brought their clasped hands to his chest, and they shared a stolen kiss before entering the main street where anyone could see them._

_Later, when they could barely stand up from fatigue, Norman offered to walk Sammy home, which was very w_ e _ll situated in the city, in a posh neighbourhood, not too far away from where they currently were. The conductor agreed, delighted to be allowed some more time in the other's company._

_When they reached their destination, Norman offered his hand as goodbye. Looking down at it, Sammy took it for a shake, like he always did when they met in the morning in the office, or when they went home at night, and grinned like he had been visited by the most devilish thought._

_Just like that, the composer pulled the projectionist through the front garden, to a shadowy corner under an old tree, close to the outer stairs to his house. Norman shuffled after him, almost toppling over and nearly falling over his colleague. He caught himself just in time with his left arm, banging his palm hard into the outer wall to prevent bashing their heads together._

_He had an apology ready, but he stopped upon sensing the way Sammy shivered at the impact, maddeningly electrifying, the current going through their clasped hands. The shorter man let out a flustered exhale through agape lips and his cheeks became peppered with red. His pupils were dilated, encompassed within a thin greenish ring, and his nostrils flared._

_Mesmerised, Norman bent forward and kissed him like he was never going to see him again. The musician returned the kiss openly, drowning in it, craving it to go on and on. He pressed their bodies together, feeling the other through the layers of clothing, making his insides twist with shattering want._

_They heard a noise in their proximity and they had to depart from each other, no matter their desires. It wasn't something that they could do in the open, certainly not in front of Sammy's house, and definitely not as two men._

_Their eyes were wild and their chests were puffing as they regained control over their wills. Sammy's colourful smirk was absolutely racy. "Thank you for walking me home, Norman," he said thickly, voice covered with heady lust. "I really enjoyed this," he added, waving his hand between them._

_"Me too," admitted the other one. "I hope we could do this again."_

_"Kissing by the stairs? Anytime you want," Sammy jested and caught his friend's hand, ignoring they were still outside. He placed a gentle peck on the back of his knuckles, his lips feeling supple and moist against the rough skin. The feverish look was returned with a chuckle. "Oh, going out, you mean? That too, anytime. There are plenty of places where I'd like to take you to," he implied innocently, and squeezed Norman's hand once more before letting go. "There's a subway station right around the corner, so you can get home, too."_

_"I think I can handle it, thanks."_

_"Of course you can. Well, I will see you at work, I suppose. And call me when you get home, so I know you've made it in one piece."_

_Norman's right eyebrow crooked up. "Lovely concern, but I'm sure there ain't gonna be no outlaws comin' to snatch me an' lock me up in their tower."_

_"No, stupid, so I know you haven't fallen asleep on the train! Tired idiot," Sammy grumbled and returned to the light. He started ascending the few front stairs. "Take care, and just give me a call."_

_"Sure do, first thing when I get home. Sleep tight, Lawrence."_

_"Hey, Norman?"_

_The man stretched his neck. "Hm?"_

_"Do you have any plans for tomorrow evening? Well, today's evening, actually."_

_The projectionist all but grinned. "Sure do. I plan on takin' you to the pictures, dove. What about you?"_

_"What a thing, Norman, we seem to have the same plans. We must be thinking alike," the composer said as he opened the front door, his smile poignantly pouring into his voice._

_"Great minds tend to do that," the projectionist explained and began laughing. "Go to sleep, Sammy, I'm gonna ring you from home."_

_From the door frame, Sammy watched Norman walking down the street, towards the station. He visually followed his broad back, until he could no longer see him. Sighing morosely, he finally entered his lonely home, regretting he hadn't suggested Norman to sleep over at his place._

_After all, there was plenty of space for the both of them in his bed._

XXXXX

After a quick inspection, Sammy deemed that the room where he'd been left to wait was indeed devoid of anything interesting. It was just a fairly empty space with some things stored in it. And he was still alone.

What a shame.

He pulled his knees to his chest, making himself a ball on top of the ink stained sheets, biding his new companion to come back.

It was nice to know that someone cared for his wellbeing. That he had been left somewhere safe, where nothing could enter and harm him. Though, no matter how thoughtful the gesture really was, he didn't like it one bit. There was something that made Sammy want to follow Norman, or what was left of him.

Did he even remember Sammy? What they used to have?

It was so difficult, getting all those snippets of his former life. It must have been beautiful, to walk together under the moonlight, to talk, to exchange fugitive looks and to hold hands when no one was looking. Just like in that vision of his. There must have been more to it, he was certain.

He missed all that, even what he wasn't able to remember.

Touching. Feeling.

Being human.

Sammy sighed, sound too loud in the deserted room. The candles were flicking gently, illuminating the corners.

"What had happened to us," he wondered aloud. "How had we become... this?"

He looked down at his fingers. Long, delicate, thin. Made to play the piano and strum the strings.

But only four at each hand.

Norman had five fingers, he realised. He was sure of it. So had that odd man he had almost sacrificed.

Some of those disgusting Searchers in his department had five fingers. Even the awkward one with a hat, who was randomly passing by and saluting him without ever attempting to hurt him, had five.

If all of them were made like that, then why did he possess only four fingers? Whereas in the visions, he owned five?

He twirled said digits in front of his eyes, watching the gloss undulate over the ink.

Who else had four fingers?

Bendy, that's who.

The small dancing demon darling that was featured in the films being projected on the walls, right on this lower floor. And his floor, too, up in the Music Department. It was Bendy who also had four fingers.

"And he's starring in a cartoon, meaning he is a cartoon characters. Therefore, it is only logical to conclude that... I am a cartoon character," Sammy whispered to himself. "What the hell..."

It made no sense, but he needed to tell that to Norman. He seemed to understand speech, so he had to be informed of something as big as that. Maybe he knew something. Or perhaps, he didn't. Nonetheless, it was important and he absolutely had to share that revelation with someone who would listen to him.

With his mind made up, Sammy left the safety of the room to find the Projectionist, despite the other's better advice.

Perhaps, following that trail, they could remember who they had been, their whole story. Find the missing puzzle pieces and get out of those inky prisons they called their bodies.

Or, at the very least, Sammy called them so. The Projectionist didn't seem to be able to talk, but the former prophet could fill in for his silent ally.

But first, he had to find him.

XXXXX

The Projectionist dragged his feet after himself, painfully taking another step forward. He restlessly shuffled through the ink river, doing his rounds, painstakingly balancing the machine over his head not to topple over.

The monster looked around him as he wobbled, examining the walls. They were looking very different from what he remembered... as much as that was. The same looping scenes of the unfinished cartoon were continuously playing, but they appeared somewhat clearer in his sight. They no longer had large blotches moving over them and the light wasn't fluctuating anymore. The edges of his vision were clean as a freshly washed window.

He wondered if that was how things really looked like. Had he been the one seeing them differently?

A rustle in the ink interrupted his reverie and he turned around, to see what was disturbing his short-lived revelation. He was ready to strike down whatever was crawling through his lair, anything that might endanger his new charge. It was his responsability to protect Sammy, even more so after what images he had received in his blessed moments of rest.

He investigated the source of the commotion. In front of him, a misshapen blob of ink waved with a large, dripping hand, the other tucked behind his back. When he had the Projectionist's attention, the creature took off his bowler hat and bowed piously, then disappeared into the puddles.

Cautiously, the Projectionist walked towards the spot where the Thing had resided just a moment before. He sensed nothing, not even a presence.

The strange Searcher with a hat had merely come to salute him. Well, that was really kind.

How very peculiar.

Resuming his rounds, the Projectionist thought of another strange happening. Soon after finding the inky man who wore the cardboard mask, he didn't feel the need to attack on sight. He saw everything clearer, he formed words inside his head and he could decide if something was a threat or not.

The polite Searcher hadn't been a threat, and he had a feeling that he had met him before. They might have been friends, but who could really tell, when neither could speak?

However, the Piper that was rushing with a wrench in his hand was definitely not friendly, so the Projectionist made quick work of the miserable's neck.

Leaving the fading corpse behind, he kept on walking, rummaging inside the bit of sensible brain he had discovered if there was anything that could explain what was happening.

His heavy footsteps took him to one of the larger areas on his floor. He could clearly pick up the presence of an intruder poking around his domain. Slowly, he made his way towards the bottom of a staircase where a human stood, his skin like paper and hair messy on top of his head. And nervously holding a Tommy gun in his hands.

With a terrible shriek, the Projectionist followed his first instinct to attack the uninvited newcomer. He was definitely a threat, otherwise he wouldn't have been pointing a gun at him.

The bullet that passed though his shoulder was painful, but his body soon absorbed it. Unrelenting, he marched faster towards the challenging man, who was trembling with the gun in his arms. A rainfall of bullets pierced his torso, irking the Projectionist rather than causing any lasting wounds.

"Oh, shit, shit, shit," the intruder cursed, trying to get more distance between himself and the beast clearly set on mauling him. He quickly reloaded the firearm, hoping that it would deal at least some damage to the unrelenting monstrosity jogging to him.

The man pointed the barrel to the creature's chest, where the round speaker was emitting otherworldly cries. He clenched his finger on the trigger, but a yell prevented him from firing.

"NO!" someone shouted sharply behind him. "PLEASE, STOP!"

The inky prophet he had met in the Music Department rushed past him, capturing his right arm in a tight grip. "Henry, stop that! Don't kill him, please," Sammy begged, recognising the stranger as his failed sacrifice. Shrugging the motionless man off, he ran to the stunned Projectionist, who had halted his advance when he had heard his masked friend's distressed voice.

"Oh, Norman," the musician wailed, touching the bullet wounds that were reabsorbing. "Oh, no, please, don't die, please... don't leave me..."

The Projectionist looked down, honestly surprised. The gashes were doing better and better, ink covering the holes that had pierced his torso. He placed a gentle hand on the weeping figure's shoulder, to reassure Sammy that he was, in fact, quite fine.

"Are you alright?"

The Projectionist nodded slowly, the loose wires and films on his back swooshing soothingly.

"You're unharmed! Oh, Lord, thank you so much," Sammy blurted and threw himself at the creature, capturing him in his tight embrace, sounding a bit like a wet newspaper smacking over a windshield.

Henry stood inertly, taken aback by whatever was happening. The studio was beginning to freak him out the more he saw of it. He took a step back, directing both ink people's attention to him.

The Projectionist was about to fend Sammy off and have his way with the threat's insides, but a hand clasped his. "No, Norman, he's just scared. Aren't you, Henry?"

The man nodded spasmodically. "Yes...? I mean, yes! Yes, very scared! I really don't want to cause you any harm, but you looked like you were going to kill me, um... Norman? That's your name, right?"

"Yes," Sammy replied for the speechless creature. "That's his name. You've heard his voice in the Music Department, in the projection booth."

"Yes, leading to your sanctuary... He was a projectionist, wasn't he? Good God, what happened to you? I'm sorry for shooting you, honestly."

The static in the speaker was replaced with a sound that resembled waves crashing against rocks in the sea. Sammy patted the Projectionist's chest. "Norman? This is Henry Stein, he's a cartoonist. That's what he said, at least."

"It's all true!" the man quickly defended himself.

Sammy shushed him. "Forgive me for being suspicious, but I believe you can understand it better than anyone, yes? But enough of that. What are you doing here? Surely, you must have encountered the Angel."

Henry was surprised by the assumption. "Yes, I actually have. Do you know her? She has mentioned your name."

Sammy crossed his arms over his chest. "Hm... perhaps I do. But this isn't about me. This is a very low level, Henry. What are you doing here, wandering around? You're lucky I've found you, Norman would have torn you to shreds otherwise." He turned to his friend. "Wouldn't you have, Norman?"

The Projectionist shrugged, his interest peaked by the swish he was hearing even above the sound of the reel inside his head. His light searched the walls. There was more ink dripping than usual.

The radio static cracked, startling the other two. "Norman, is that...?" Sammy asked. His wrist was grabbed with urgency, beckoning him to move.

"Sammy? What is he doing?"

"Henry, come with us, fast," Sammy ordered him and wildly motioned with his free hand. "Make haste already!"

They walked as fast as they could on the flooded floor. Something was wrong, the lights were getting dimmer and the walls were getting darker. "Faster, Henry! Grab my hand," Sammy demanded with exasperation, and finally connected his hand with the cartoonist's. Used to navigating the ink, the conductor was able to speed them up, aided by the Projectionist's harsh, steering grasp.

There was something coming after them, Henry was certain, and he was afraid to look back. Between whatever was behind them, probably the Ink Demon himself, or maybe that demented Twisted Angel, and the two creatures who had already tried to kill him but stopped at the last possible second, he was inclined to go with the latter. They appeared less keen on having him for dinner than the former.

They reached a wooden door and the Projectionist opened it, shoved them inside, then closed it behind them.

Both of the talking men were panting. "It's safe in here," Sammy explained as he took a seat on the bed where he had just woken up from, before going after his friend.

"Thank you," Henry muttered, warily examining the scarce objects in the room. "What was that?"

"Well," Sammy said with a dry chuckle, "be my guest and go see what it was. But I'm not so sure how you will be able to tell us. After you see it, of course."

The Projectionist's static cackled. He turned his back to the other two, in favour to checking the candles.

"No, I think I'll stay here until it leaves, thank you," Stein quickly commented, unappreciative of the musician's not too merry humour. "This is where you've gone after, you know-"

"After we've met in the Music Department? Yes, mostly. Has it been long? It didn't feel like that long, thought admittedly, I have been asleep for the most of it. Oh, and you can take a seat by me, I'm not fond of biting. As far as I am aware, at least."

Henry uneasily scratched his head and complied with most of the request, given that he chose to sit on a crate next to the bed rather than on the bunk. There was something that didn't make him feel nowhere near safe in the vicinity of the prophet, or whatever he was calling himself. He would attribute his reticence to some healthy self-preservation.

"It must have been a while, it's hard to tell how time passes in here," Henry eventually replied. He looked at the Projectionist, who was shuffling from a foot to another, not joining them. It was better that way, he supposed.

"Yes, it's almost like it never passes," Sammy mused. "By the way, you haven't told us why you're down here."

"It's a long story..."

"Oh, what better do we have to do, but chat? Since we're here, where it's safe."

"Fair is fair," Henry agreed. "Um... after you've released me, I ran away, to a room which I barricaded. I wandered for a bit, and Boris found me... or a clone of him. You know, the wolf? There seem to be many Borises. He sheltered me for a while, he's very friendly, and then we left his safe house. We ran into someone who says she's Alice Angel. Only, she looks like half her face has gone through the mincing machine. And she screams fiercely, my ears are still ringing."

"Yes, that's the Angel. What did she want from you?"

"Wants, still. She was hesitant when she saw us, Boris and I, I mean... But then she made me collect some valves, thick ink from the creatures that are lurking in here, and..." he trailed on, pondering if he should mention the cut-outs he had butchered. Preferably no, since he didn't know how Sammy would react, for the obvious reason.

"And? " the composer inquired impatiently.

"And hearts. Inky hearts, she called them. To make her beautiful, she said, though I'm certain how that would work. She's in quite a state."

Sammy gasped. "No..."

"No?"

"This is not particularly good, Henry. Why would she need them? Unless..." The conductor turned to the Projectionist, feeling very dizzy. The knot inside his stomach was twisting, like it had done when he had set his prisoner free, in the sacrifice room. When the pull inside his gut had broken loose and disappeared. "I think she's demanding for these objects to do a ritual."

"Ritual?" Henry inquired.

"Yes, it's a possibility." Sammy tapped his fingers on his stained pants. By his side, Henry made a quizzing sound, regaining the inky creature's focus. "Oh, don't be so surprised, sheep-man. After all, not too long ago, I was doing them, too. But, blood under the bridge, as they say... whoever they are. These hearts, however... they must be, hm... my guess is that she's animating something. She doesn't need hearts to keep herself in one piece, or, at least, I don't think she does. I haven't seen anyone really doing anything with them. All she needs is ink, really." Sammy rubbed his pointy chin, underneath the mask. "You said you had a partner with you? This... Boris? Where is he?"

"I left him at the elevator. The one by the patio."

Sammy pointed a finger at Henry. "You need to find him. Get him somewhere safe. I think she wants something with him."

"What could she possible want?" Henry slapped his forehead. "Goodness, I'm an utter idiot! Of course, there were tons of other Borises with their chests cut out, what could she possibly want with him? Damn it, I need to get him out of there!"

"No, no, no," Sammy interrupted. "The Angel knows you are here, on this level. She won't let you leave without paying her price. She'll hunt you down until you are even. No, you have to get her the inky hearts, then return to Boris. What has she promised you after you deliver what she needs?"

"To unlock the elevator and bring us up."

"To the upper floors? Perfect, fulfil your end of the bargain and we'll meet you upstairs. I'll listen to the walls and find where you disembarked. For that, I'll need you to knock on the wood when you leave the lift, okay? Together, we'll travel somewhere safe without anyone knowing where we went. We'll talk there at leisure."

"How exactly will you take us there? The Angel sees all the main corridors, she'll know where we went."

"Through the cracks in the walls, obviously. Don't ask more, I shall be there to help you, don't worry. That's all you need to know. Now, you have to go and collect the hearts. Try to stay safe. Norman and I won't get in your way, right?"

The Projectionist nodded reluctantly.

"Collect the hearts, and let us know when you're done. We will be waiting for you. Only... don't take too long. And stay away from the shadows. You never know what is lurking, when you are all alone, in the dark."

With a gulp, Henry agreed to the half-baked plan. What could possibly go wrong?

Well, possibly anything, but eh. That’s life.

Or an imitation of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da, that’s that for now. This was supposed to be a much longer chapter, but the parts I cut will be added to the beginning of the next entry. I hope you’re enjoying this story so far, thank you for reading! Please, let me know what you think of this, leave me some words and kudos, if you’d like. I’ll upload the next chapter soon.  
> Till then, bye-bye!


	5. Chapter Five – The One and Only

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mornin’! Here we are with a new chapter for this story. Nothing much to be said, besides dig in! We're getting development here.  
> As per warnings, it contains graphic scenes and foul language peppered through the lines. I hope you will enjoy it, thank you very much for reading! Let me know what you think of it in the comments below, I appreciate hearing from you!  
> That being said, on with the crash...

**Chapter Five – The One and Only**

A good while must have passed since Henry had left the two inky people alone, in the deposit. Sammy had no idea how long it had actually been, he didn't waste his time on counting minutes. He used it for more important matters, such as analysing his visions and trying to bring more of them to the surface.

Oh, yes, about that... he had forgotten to tell about his revelation.

Unlike the introspecting composer, the Projectionist was rather restless, going from a side of the room to the other. Perhaps, he could feel Henry meddling with his domain and he couldn't rest easily. It was understandable, there was little more unpleasant than having a complete stranger poking around your business and not being able to do a thing about it.

Seated on the mattress and observing, Sammy believed it was quite polite of his hulking friend to allow the human to roam around and disturb his place without intervening. All the better, because the former prophet had a hunch they could use their new ally to get to the bottom of things.

After all, if they were trapped, it meant Henry was as well.

He took another peek at the crooked beast that was making rounds in the small space. When he got closer to him, Sammy extended his hand towards him, touching his ink stained thigh.

The Projectionist halted his mindless circles with a startle. "Oh, sorry," Sammy was quick to say. "I just don't like that you can't stay still. You deserve some rest."

The creature shrugged and willed himself to remain in one place. His arms still dangled uselessly by his hips. “It's difficult, isn't it?"

A nod. Well, that was a response.

"I don't know if it's a good idea to start walking around again. Not yet, at least. We should wait for Henry, and then we’ll go, what do you say?” Obviously, the Projectionist couldn’t reply. Sammy shifted a bit. “Anyway, I hope he’s well. You see, Norman, I believe he might be the solution to our problems. I think he will be able to set us free from this inky coop... He must have arrived here for a reason."

The speaker cracked some unidentifiable noises, sounding a bit like grumbling. Sammy was quick to put his hands up. "No, Norman, hear me out. Some time ago, I felt the floor moving. I was just minding my own business, nothing strange or out of order. Not too long after, Henry showed up. I think he has something to do with that, you know. I must ask him when he returns, I hope I don't forget. I should have probably asked him sooner, but he needs to stay in the Angel's sight for now, so she doesn't get suspicious. Until he returns, we have to stay here. I'm sorry for this, I- I suppose I might understand how it is, feeling caged... being caged. It's bothersome."

Gently, the Projectionist trailed his fingertips across Sammy's jaw, where the mask wasn't hindering the access to his face. The musician smiled beneath it. He pressed his hand over the other's, to feel it closer. There was the distinctive feel of smooth cloth under ink, as if he touched gloves.

"I don't know about you, Norman, and it might come out as sheer madness, but I'm seeing some things, inside my head. Glimpses of the past, I reckon. You are in them, too. Not like this, though. No, you have a face, just like Henry. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Slowly, the other nodded.

"Really? Oh, my, that’s good. That’s very good, actually."

The Projectionist jerked their connected hands. "Hm? What is it, Norman?" The projector head bumped the side of his mask. "Oh, you want me to discard it? Um, yes, of course, I can do that," Sammy complied, lifting his mask and resting it on top of his forehead. "There's nothing to see here, you surely remember... only a hideous form. You've seen it before, when we met."

With a wail, the Projectionist shook his heavy head. He cupped the other's face, large hands covering most of the composer's ink-consumed cheeks. "Hey, big blob," Sammy spoke in a tender voice, despite himself. "What is it? Are you alright?"

The Projectionist shook his head again. He wasn't fine, not even in the slightest. He wanted to talk and he could not. He hurt tremendously and, to add to his sorrow, his gaze was filled with something horrendous, something that shouldn't be the way that it was.

The one in his hands, the Projectionist recalled him clearly, like a flash of light. He held his slick cheeks between his cupped hands, stained and deformed by the dark, viscous substance. The masked man had his once handsome face covered in thick ink, dripping slowly from the top of his head and sliding down his thin neck. He used to have wavy, elegant hair, coloured like the purest honey, and now, it was all an amorphous mass of murky liquid plastered to his scalp.

That wasn't his Sammy, that was an abomination with his voice attached to it.

But, after all, wasn't he just the same? A shadow of what he used to be, distorted and vile.

He was starting to remember more about the inky man sitting down on the bed, about the way he had looked when no goo was flowing over him. He was seeing things without a veil, reconnecting to who he had once been and what he had known. He wished he could tell his story to the man whose face was framed by his large palms, say what he had meant to him. No ache was greater than the fact that he could not voice his thoughts.

He was able to feel very little and express even less in his current situation. But he did nurture disgust in his own form, deformed and impaled by numerous cords. Saw horror in what happened to the beautiful smile of the inky composer. And seethed with aversion to that unholy place.

Morosely, he let go of the stunned musician and turned his back at him.

"Norman, please...," Sammy began, only for the words to get caught in his throat. He had a lot to lose if he spoke, he reckoned, but nothing could stop him anymore. "I... I should be honest with you, since you were this nice to me and didn't return me to the shadows. I have a confession to make and you should hear it."

The Projectionist remained rooted to his spot, with his back turned. However, the static from his chest was low and his light was dim. Sammy supposed it was meant as a confirmation that he wasn’t talking to himself.

"You might think I'm mad and I wouldn't disagree with you on that, but I keep on having some very strange images inside my head. They started right when the floor shook. And then, they kept on coming and coming, like films from a projector, you know? Like dreams... But they can't be just that, they must be memories. My memories. And you always appear in them. You're always in them, inevitably there. I might not see you from their inception, but you infallibly appear at some point. I know I’m repeating myself, but I have to know the answer. So please tell me, so I know if I had lost my mind, if I ever had one to begin with. Do you have such memories?"

Silence fell between them, for a few moments. The swish made by the cables cut through it, indicating that the Projectionist was nodding. "You do? Who do you see?"

The heavy projector turned towards Sammy, bathing him in light. A gnarly finger pointed at him.

"Me? Do you remember me?"

The Projectionist nodded once again.

Sammy smiled, the ink shifting over his featureless face. "Oh, you can't believe how much joy this brings me! Oh, Norman, this is... ah, this is perfect! I don't know how much you remember, but we were close. I've seen it."

The other ink creature rotated so he faced the former prophet. His head bobbed up and down again. "We were, weren't we? I'm so glad you recall it, too. I hope we'll get more memories back... I remember your eyes, Norman, and your smile," Sammy said, touching the side of the projector, where a blank reel frame was spinning without having a film inside. "You were my handsome man-"

A loud bang against the door interrupted them. The Projectionist spun sharply, shielding Sammy, prepared to maim whatever was posing a threat to them.

The door opened, revealing a hyperventilating Henry. "I hope you two had your beauty sleep, because we really need to get going."

Sammy pushed his protector to the side after slipping his mask back into position. "What happened?"

"Why, many things," Henry retorted, "but most importantly – I've got the hearts."

"Splendid! Now, you have to go meet the Angel."

Henry sighed and rubbed his forehead. His hands were clean, but his clothes were soiled with ink. "Yeah, that's the thing... how should we proceed? I know I've got to deliver her the hearts, but how do we escape her? And not just in theory."

"I'll grab you after you ascend to the upper floors, so she doesn’t get suspicious, and then I get you to safety. Haven't we agreed on that?" Sammy asked.

"We have, but I'm starting to believe this isn't a good idea," Henry relayed. "You might be able to get us out, but won't she know it was you? I've told you, she seems to know you. She probably knows that you can travel through the walls. She'll find you. And your friend, um... Norman. She said he’s here. I suppose he’d always been here. Won't she notice he’s missing?"

Sammy snapped his fingers. "Of course she will, but we’ll be far away when she does. Besides, she's never leaving these floors. As a matter of fact, before your arrival, I had never left the Music Department, apart from that one time when I'd ran into her and made my way straight back to my level."

"Precisely! How will we know where to go?" Henry demanded, motioning frantically. The filthy messenger bag, where the beating hearts were stored, bubbled with each of his shrugs. "We could run into anything, and Alice Angel isn't even our primary threat! I don't think your Ink Demon will be too glad to see you again."

Sammy shuddered. "Don't speak His name," he spat. "And we have Norman," he added, and pointed to the Projectionist, who was idly watching the two men talking.

"So?"

"So! He knows these parts quite well. Don't you, Norman?"

The Projectionist cocked his head to the side.

"He does, never mind him," Sammy shrugged him off. "I remember him knowing places no one knew... He used to get into all sorts of predicaments with people because of that," he trailed on, frowning. He gathered his hands to his chest. "He used to know everything... I think I remember it, yes..."

"Sammy, what are you saying? You think you remember? What’s that supposed to mean?"

"You see, Henry, the funny thing is that I have no memory of who I am. Only snippets. I'm currently putting the pieces together, and I think so does Norman. It's a long story, as you said. Only, ours can't be resumed in as few words. We, ourselves, don't know it in its entirety."

"Pff, this is just grand. Damn it," Henry cussed. "Alright, I'll go along with it. Wait for Boris and me by the elevator cage on the highest floor. I'll go up to Level 9, give Alice what she wants, and then return to the lift. We go up, get to your level, and you grab us, take us to Norman, and he takes us somewhere safe. How does it sound?"

"Just like what I was about to say," Sammy replied calmly. "Go on, little sheep, let us worry about the details while you're working your wonders," he twirled, sounding very far away. “And don’t forget to knock.”

Henry didn't look too delighted about anything that was happening, though what else could he do, but go along with things and hope they turned out well.

Which, of course, they didn't.

XXXXX

Henry returned to the elevator, where Boris was patiently waiting for his return. He appeared to be tapping to some silent tune, making time pass as he was cooed up in the metal cage.

"Hey, buddy, missed me? Let's get going," Henry saluted the wolf, who nodded his head, his snout bobbling like a pompom on top of gelatine. He smiled at his canine friend. "Yeah, it's all right. We'll get out of this place," he assured him, but something dark was telling him that was never going to happen.

He swallowed drily as he cast another glance at the merry wolf. Not for the first time since he had met him, he felt that something bad was going to happen to him.

They ascended to the Angel's lair, where Stein quickly discarded the repulsive hearts. They were still pulsing, droplets of thick ink gushing out of the output arteries and splattering everywhere.

Absently, Henry wondered where all that ink was coming from, never ending and permanently coursing.

The sweet voice of Alice Angel cut through the silence, startling him out of his reverie. He swiftly returned to the elevator, preparing to ascend to the uppermost floor, where he would hopefully not hear that demented creature speak bile and nonsense and where he'd meet with Sammy and his unsavoury companion.

With unexplainable dread, he pushed the highest button, expecting to be taken upwards.

Only that the elevator started descending.

And awfully fast.

XXXXX

Sammy followed the Projectionist's footsteps, mercilessly holding a very intense monologue.

"How delightful, don't you think? To have an idea about ourselves. Naturally, an idea is merely a vague notion, but it's a promising start. Oh, yes, indeed it is! How very exciting!"

The large creature going ahead simply bobbed his great projector-head, unable to say anything. Sammy had been ranting for some time and the other wasn't exactly listening to what he was saying anymore. He focused on the melody of that voice rather than the words it carried.

He didn't know for how long he had been an insentient, moving inky carcass that was set on crippling anything that breathed, but to the Projectionist, hearing again was the highest blessing. Even if that meant to be abused by the interminable speech – smooth as the finest velvet, but still unnecessarily long - provided by the eerily talkative musician.

What the Projectionist remembered about the composer was that he had never been, in fact, much of a talker. Or not with everyone, to be precise. He had preferred to reserve his tirades to a selected few, amongst whom Norman had somehow made it on the top of the list. To the rest of the world, Samuel Lawrence had been a sharp-tongued, sarcastic fellow with a cool demeanour hiding unjustified anger that sometimes surfaced and put everyone back into their places.

It seemed that, despite still collecting the shards of his former persona, Sammy still possessed his most characteristic traits. And, most importantly, his voice was as rich as ornate gold.

Having Sammy's soothing voice in the background, the Projectionist allowed himself to use his newly-found wits to resume the examination of his surroundings. The vast hallways, the stained floors and the dripping ceilings. Looking around, he couldn't help but question the immense spaces, with long panels of wood boarding them up.

They were walking around, climbing up the utility stairs and checking the place out, waiting for a sign from Henry. They had yet to hear the man knocking on the wood like they had agreed, so they took their time to explore.

Sometimes, they found boxes on the walls, with all sorts of levers hidden inside. Some had obnoxious lights beeping, others had valves.

And one was smashed as if someone had tried to make a paste out of it.

The Projectionist abruptly halted his steps. He kept on shifting on his spot as he bent forward, to get closer to the busted console on the wall.

Sammy noticed his companion inspecting the broken device, his light shining brightly over the object of interest. "Hm," Sammy hummed behind him, changing the subject of his contemplation. "Such rage over a few levers," he commented.

The Projectionist's helmet sharply turned around. He grabbed one of Sammy's suspenders and dragged him closer to the panel.

"Easy, Norman, what is it?" the musician asked, surprised by the rough handling.

The other inky creature insistently patted a messed-up label on the busted visiting door of the panel. "Oh, there seems to be some writing, you're right... okay, let me see... ele-... -tor... contr..." He stopped. "I think it's saying 'Elevator Control'." He gasped in understanding. "You're right, we have to find Henry!"

The Projectionist needn't be told twice – he grabbed Sammy's wrist and dragged him along, rushing on a trail of ink with newfound purpose, steering them towards a crack that he had seen in a wall.

XXXXX

The elevator coming down, the deranged voice of the woman who called herself an Angel, but looked like a nightmare coming true, the scared wolf in the corner – they all seemed so familiar to the animator.

'What a moment to be having déjà vu's,' Henry thought airily, in spite of all the commotion surrounding him. Blood was rushing to his head, making him light as a feather.

He blinked slowly, almost nauseous from the speed of the falling lift. It all looked so familiar, he was surprised that he was experiencing any of these for the first time.

_'You look familiar.'_

That was what Sammy had said. And, damn it, that crazy bastard looked familiar, too.

In the absurdity of it all, as the elevator was crashing down the levels at an alarming speed, Henry started laughing like a maniac.

He was going to fall God knew where and he was certain he was still going to survive it.

He had fallen literal floors before and nothing had happened to him.

He was indestructible. Immortal.

Henry shook his head, feeling his skin trembling as gravity demanded its toll. How absurd everything was. He had been abducted by a madman wearing a mask, played the gofer for a damaged gal who thought herself a beauty queen, shot a gun at a thing with a projector on its head, even heated soup for a freaking wolf with a banjo, for crying out loud! Oh, and he had forgotten to mention that one of the characters he had designed in his youth was now set on dismembering him. What sort of madness was that?

Did he seriously think that what he was seeing then was absurd, after having gone through all of that?

But, the craziest of all was that he had actually complied with Joey's letter. He must have been insane to actually pay a visit to that forsaken studio which seemed to be larger than the National Museum.

‘ _That’s how mistakes are made, Mister Stein_.’ Well, yes, he couldn’t deny it.

When the elevator crashed, Henry landed flat on its floor. Boris quickly kneeled next to him, shaking him in an attempt to wake him up.

Watching the scene though half-lidded eyes, the animator marvelled at how certain he was that he had lived it all before.

Thankfully, thoughts didn't linger much in his mind. Darkness was finally enveloping him... from everywhere.

XXXXX

For once, it was Sammy who took the lead in leading his companion.

Around the time of the disturbing discovery of the busted elevator console, a terrible screech disrupted the tranquillity of the studio. Both inky creatures looked at each other, guessing that must have been the lift in which Henry was ascending to the upper floors with Boris.

That didn’t sound like something going up, though.

They found a crack in one of the walls and Sammy entered through it after clasping the Projectionist's hand tightly. He didn't know if it would work, whether the both of them could travel like that or not, but it was well worth the shot.

Humid darkness encompassed them. The Projectionist held onto his hand and ignored all the whispers around them, trusting Sammy to take them to where the lift cage was probably heading.

They emerged to the surface in another hallway. Lights were flicking on the walls, the ceiling lamps dangling and creating trembling shapes along the wooden panels.

In the distance, the ruin of a metal cage laid cracked open. A big, black and brown wolf silently shook an unconscious form lying on the back. He was desperately trying to elicit a reaction from the motionless person, failing to notice the menacing shadow that was spreading over him.

At first, Sammy thought that it was the Ink Demon – but the lurker had too much colour on its clothes.

"It's the Angel," he whispered to the Projectionist, who was watching the scene as well. "Norman, we have to do something."

The disfigured woman was right behind the grieving wolf, still struggling with his friend. She had an unhinged grin on her malformed face, the molten side gleaming in the trepid light.

Just before her hands touched the frightened wolf's shoulders, the Projectionist shone his bright light over her. She turned her head, seemingly unnerved by the distraction. "You filthy-" was all that she managed to say, because the Projectionist smacked her with the back of one of his large, sharp claws, the impact sounding like a shovel hitting a hard rock.

The deformed Alice was sent flying into the opposite wall, body cracking against the wood. She whizzed, her lungs deflating without getting enough air back. Maybe she would have attempted to crawl away, but she was soon presented with a similar blow. It shut her up, probably for good.

Sammy sensed something akin to pride as he watched his newfound ally paint the wall with their threat in just one blow. In his mind, the second strike had been some sort of display of power, not for good measure as it actually had been. He liked the sound of his explanation better.

Remembering about the unconscious cartoonist on the floor, Sammy rushed by the Boris clone's side, who immediately cowered away from him. The wolf then tried to get the musician off Henry, as if he was going to harm him.

"Will you stop it already, you dumb mutt! We need to take him somewhere safe, for God's sake!" Sammy exploded, attempting to halt the wolf's unwanted aggression towards him. "What's the matter with you, I'm helping-"

Boris's entire frame unexpectedly ascended. It was soon clear as to why – the Projectionist held him up by the overalls straps, clearly telling him he should stop pushing Sammy away.

"Aren't you strong, Norman," the composer chuckled, tone visibly impressed. The wolf stopped his assault, and his cut-pie shaped eyes turned into perfect circles at the mention of that name.

Sammy seemed oblivious to the change in the wolf's expression. "Boris, yes?" he asked. "We need to get going, anything can attack us here. We're with Henry, okay? Friendly, do you get it? We need to get you two to safety, do you understand?"

Boris nodded quickly.

"Marvellous, then. Norman, can you put him down? I cannot carry Henry by myself and you are better qualified to hit whatever threats we might encounter."

The Projectionist lowered the panicked wolf, who quickly resumed shaking Henry. Thankfully, the cartoonist opened his eyes that time.

"What-"

"Good morning, sleepy sheep," Sammy stated blandly, voice devoid of any trace of enthusiasm.

Bright light hit the animator right in the eyes. The Projectionist averted his gaze and started checking if the room was safe, biding his time.

Henry blinked, very confused about what was happening. He glanced at the grinning mask of the former prophet, then to the smiling face of the ever hungry wolf. "Where are we? Where's-" He noticed Alice Angel, still planted into the wall. "Ah, forget it."

"Guess that answered the question of ‘where’s the Angel’, hm?" Sammy calmly made.

"Is she dead?"

"I don't know, all I know is that Norman had a disagreement with her face," the composer explained.

"Huh," Henry puffed, breath cut short. He nodded to the Projectionist. "Lucky I'm on his good side, ey?"

Sammy nudged him with his ink stained foot. He heard the wolf at his side growl, but he cared too little about that. "Lucky that I had intervened at the perfect moment, more like, or you would have ended up just like her. Never mind that now, we have to go. Get up, up, up, now!" he urged. "Boris, help me get him up!"

"I'm moving, I'm moving! Don't pull me!" Henry exclaimed, swatting his helpers with the back of his hand. "I can lift up by myself."

"If so, lift up faster, we don't need the Ink Demon behind our backs, do we?"

At that, Henry suddenly pushed himself to his feet, ready to take their quarrel somewhere else.

XXXXX

The four unlikely companions made their way through the maze of corridors, away from the beaten up body of the one that was supposed to impersonate Alice Angel and the carcass of the destroyed lift.

Despite his big words, Henry was a little dizzy from the fall, but he managed to keep up with the others, occasionally leaning against Boris. Sammy and the Projectionist took the lead, both of them scanning the horizon for any potential threats. The larger of the two walked in the front, his long arms ready to swat away any unwanted attention, whereas the musician trailed closer to the walls, listening to the whispers beneath them.

They travelled through a circular room filled with files, probably some division of the archives, then into numerous rooms and open spaces. They walked forward, trying to rationalise what they were seeing.

After what felt like ages, they entered a large area that seemed to be some sort of amusement park.

"Bendy... Land? I think it's supposed to say," Henry spoke, pointing to a large banner that advertised the park. Over the barely noticeable original script, someone had painted the word ' _Hell_ ' in capital letters. "I don't remember this."

"Funny," Sammy muttered, looking around after finally detaching himself from the walls. His head was ringing after straining himself to listen to every single sound on their path. "I don't remember it either."

The Projectionist seemed to motion towards himself, his pointed fingers directed to his chest.

"Norman, do you know this place?" the musician asked. The Projectionist bobbed his head up and down. "You do? Okay, that's kind of strange."

"I guess," Henry mumbled, then started coughing.

"Hey, don't die on us!" Sammy ordered. "If you wanted to rest, you should have just said so. This place looks perfectly suspicious, if you ask me, but I am not hearing anything unsettling. Least for now. We could take a break, it's not like we actually know where we’re headed. I personally don’t know this part of the studio."

"A break actually sounds nice," the cartoonist confirmed, patting Boris's back. "Thanks, buddy," he told the wolf that had helped him walk for the past while.

They found a storage room that was blissfully devoid of any intruders bent of setting them straight, so the four travellers took a very necessary break.

Three of them settled on some crates, whereas the Projectionist remained standing, dangling from a foot to the other. Sammy curiously picked up an abandoned banjo, awfully misplaced in that storage room filled with dusty mechanics, and set himself on inspecting its chords.

"Can he sit?" Henry inquired, pointing to the large creature.

"I'm not certain," Sammy replied as he plucked a singular chord. He winced. The instrument was badly out of tune. "But I know he hurts if he doesn't move. Though, as far as I can see, he’s less restless than when I have first encountered him. Maybe, with time, he will be able to sit with us. Right, Norman? I'm sure the discomfort will fade away eventually."

The Projectionist merely stepped closer to them, showing that he was listening.

"I'm sorry for your pain," Henry offered to the Projectionist, who in turn paid him no heed. His head was turned towards the composer that was humming lowly while tuning the peeling banjo. He watched him very attentively, not caring about anything else.

The cartoonist swallowed drily, wondering for the umpteenth time what was with those two. "Uh, Sammy. We need to talk."

"Yes, we certainly do. I wanted to tell you something when we were in the maze, but it didn't seem like the good moment. Thought, looking at your 'buddy' there," the musician nodded to the seated wolf, "I think I'm having a proper case on my hands, as to speak."

Henry quirked his brows. "Hm?"

"Did you notice the one thing Boris and I have in common? I will spare you from the search, it's not our trousers. I don't wear overalls." Sammy lifted an arm for all to see. "It's this. Our hands. We have four fingers at each hand. You and Norman have five."

"Yes, and?"

"And! Boris is a cartoon character! It says so on the walls, too! Haven't you seen the posters, or am I the only one who knows how to read? Apart from Norman, bless him – if he hadn't seen the words over the elevator panel, who knows when we would have found you and what would have happened?"

The cartoonist frowned, his face distorted in horror. He looked blankly down, as if he had seen his worst nightmare, right before his eyes.

"Henry?"

"I know Boris is a cartoon character. I made him. He was my design," the man started. "They all are my designs, Joey only took credit for them.”

“Joey?” Sammy asked with surprise, remembering that, in his memories, he had done a lot of grumbling about someone with that name.

“It doesn’t matter,” Henry said. “There's another thing. I think I know what would have happened if you two hadn't showed up. I know what was supposed to happen." He looked at Sammy. "Why didn't it happen that way?"

The composer strummed another chord. "Why didn't it happen, indeed," he spoke vaguely and touched the fret board again, something vibrating in him.

Sammy didn’t know what Henry wanted to say, and he didn’t give a damn. The man who was speaking became white noise, distant, even if he was right in front of him. Light bathed him from head to toe, making him glow. The banjo in his hands was a welcomed weight, grounding him as he was about to fly.

He smiled, feeling ink shifting over his face.

Again, he was no longer seeing through his own eyes.

Oh, how relieving that was.

XXXXX

_“If I had only known that our grumbling Mister Polk was such a charmer,” Sammy muttered lowly, his voice sinfully seductive in the night’s slow breeze. “I would have snatched him up sooner.”_

_Norman, who was walking by the composer’s side, gave him a look. “The hell you’re ramblin’ about, Lawrence,” he retorted gruffly, sounding as if he was certain that the other has gone insane._

_Sammy chuckled and lightly slapped his chest. “Shush, now. Let me enjoy this evening.”_

_“It’s past midnight.”_

_“Fine. Let me enjoy this night. Shut up, Polk,” Sammy quickly replied. “And you should give yourself more credit, you know. I always enjoy going out with you, even if it seems like we tend to meet up only in the dead of the night, more often than not. You’re good company, Norman.”_

_“You’re weird,” Norman commented, earning himself another light blow across the chest. “An’ don’t know how to hit.”_

_“Ah, you may think so, but I have to warn you – I am deadly with a fly swatter.”_

_“Great skills you got there, Lawrence, I’ll be sure to call you when I’m havin’ a bug to crush.”_

_Sammy chuckled and looked down, hiding his smirk. Despite himself, Norman was struggling with one of his own._

_The two men were taking a walk after work, enjoying the prospect of a free day after the current one. Most of their strolls took far longer than expected and oftentimes involved them visiting some pub or bar, talking for hours or simply staying together in perfect silence. Their feet turned restless the moment they left whatever establishment they had entered, and took them to various places, sometimes very far away._

_That evening, however, they had decided to go out with a plan. Sammy had booked a restaurant that was more suitable for a business meeting than anything even remotely romantic, but he knew that the service was excellent. Norman complied, knowing too well that two men couldn’t just meet at some candle-lit table and not raise some serious questions. Not that he had ever fancied the idea, of course, but the fact remained true._

_Despite being very quick to address Sammy’s sanity whenever he mentioned how he enjoyed his company, Norman was more than happy with that knowledge. Thrilled, actually. The composer was perhaps the most pleasant person he had ever encountered, even if there were less than precious few who would agree with his statement. He found the witty man delightful in many ways, even when he was being too much. Which was almost on a daily basis, but he would not complain._

_As the night was getting blacker, Norman found himself walking Sammy back to his home once again, to his posh neighbourhood with old trees lining up the street, casting shadows over the lit walking alley. They had quickly picked up that habit in the evenings, when they were coming back from work. Both of them worked many late nights, leaving among the last from the studio, so it was easier to slip from anyone’s radar. Even if that was so, they were careful not to raise any suspicions about them._

_They weren’t doing anything too scandalous at the moment, besides stealing a meaningful glance and sharing a heated smooch in a shadowy corner. Nevertheless, if word got out, they could have serious problems at work and not only, no matter how innocent they were maintaining their relationship._

_However, they were willing to take the chance and continue with their little thing, whatever that was._

_“Ah, home sweet home,” Sammy announced at the sight of his front door, his deep voice calm and melancholic._

_“A-yuh, princess, got you back in one piece,” Norman made, sporting a very playful look. His friend quipped mirthfully, glancing at his mismatched eyes. “Well, guess I’ll see you at work in two days?” he added as goodbye. The light in Sammy’s eyes faded slightly and he averted them to the side, making the projectionist’s heart ache. “Uh, unless, well,” he tried again, and felt his pulse flutter when the musician’s warm gaze peered back up, “you wanna take another walk tomorrow evenin’? When it’s not too hot, ‘course, it’s like in a damn oven in the city durin’ the day.”_

_“Oh,” Sammy muttered, struggling to sound disinterested, but his big smile giving him away. “Of course, of course. Actually,” he put a gentle hand on the other’s forearm, “why don’t you come in? Let’s have a drink, we aren’t needed anywhere tomorrow, are we?”_

_“I suppose we ain’t, no,” Norman retorted and his stomach did a very strange flip for a man of his experience._

_“Well, come on, then.”_

_....._

_Sammy’s house proved to be a bit like a museum, with big, stuffy rooms covered in stylised wallpaper, different in every room, and statue busts on plinths guarding the corners. He led Norman to what appeared to be some sort of sitting room or a large study, not exactly a living room, but having that intimate air of a den._

_“What would you like to drink?”_

_Norman was nearly startled by the question. “Anythin’ you’d like for you’self. Ain’t got no preferences, me.”_

_“Hmm... yes, I think I know exactly what to bring. Please, have a seat, I’ll be back in a moment,” Sammy told and disappeared in the hallway._

_All by himself, Norman took a moment to take the room in. It was encompassed by tall bookcases, going up towards the carved ceiling from where a big chandelier hanged heavily. The shelves were overcrowded with thick volumes and black notebooks, probably filled with sheet music. In a separate display, an impressive collection of vinyl albums was carefully stacked up, right next to a gleaming gramophone. By a glass door leading to a garden filled with neatly trimmed vegetation, a black polished piano reigned, shining in the electrical light. A black violin-shaped case rested on the adjustable bench, its surface matte and unreflective._

_The pointy nose of Sammy appeared through the door frame, sniffing a bit like a vulture checking a valley for some carrion. “Bit too much to take in, hm?” he asked, downright startling Norman, who prided himself in being one of the most unshakable persons to have ever lived. “Oh, my, don’t tell me I’ve scared you. Or is it my wallpaper that terrifies you?”_

_“Hah, you sure got a very particular taste in decorations.”_

_“Well, don’t blame me, blame my uncle. This house used to be his. Bought it on a whim because of the good location. He thought he might sell it when he got bored of it, but he decided to stick it up to his old business partner, who happens to be my father, and give it to me as a gift, with papers and everything. He loves rubbing it in my father's face whenever he gets the chance. I just added some things, here and there. But, I will admit – I do like stuffy rooms.”_

_“And, um, potted bushes,” Norman remarked, pointing to the veritable tropical jungle behind the glass door._

_“Especially those,” Sammy nodded with a little smirk. “And, who would have guessed! I have a couch, too, isn’t it marvellous? Come on, don’t stand up there like a fence, I’m not biting, and I believe nothing in here does, either. I think so, at least.”_

_“Fair’s fair,” Polk concluded, finally noticing the vine-patterned sofa. Sammy was faster than him, already having taken a seat on the left side of the cushions, making sure to be in the range of Norman’s fully functional eye._

_Mentally kicking himself for acting like an idiot, the projectionist joined the composer on the sofa, who was already pouring crimson wine in two crystal glasses._

_“In case you were wondering from where the stuck up attitude was coming from, it runs in the family, both maternal and paternal side,” Sammy commented as he offered him a glass. “It’s an inescapable heirloom.”_

_“Reckoned t’was somethin’ shady like this.”_

_“Oh, if you think this is shady, wait until you see the rest of the house. Especially the curtains.” The musician raised his glass. “To shadowy corners?”_

_“An’ your thick drapes,” Norman added and clinked their glasses._

_“They have silk tassels, mind that,” Sammy remarked and took a sip, his fine lips staining slightly from the rich colour of the wine._

_Without either of them noticing, time passed by, along with the entire bottle of wine. Another one soon followed, abandoned half empty between the two of them._

_Sammy spoke soothingly, lowly, recounting all sorts of things, and Norman patiently listened, toying with the other’s thin fingers. The composer looked so handsome, his elegant features accentuated by the dim light. His hair curled over flushed cheeks and his pointy chin lead to a creamy neck, heated up by the alcohol._

_He must have felt himself being watched with intensity, because Sammy stopped talking. He smiled sweetly and squeezed Norman’s hand, drawing it to his red-stained lips and kissing the knuckles, looking him into the eyes._

_He leaned forward with parted lips and hooded eyes, his smirk lost to the flutter in his chest. Artlessly, he banged his knee into something, a cacophony of sounds erupting and ending with a wooden thump._

_“Ah, for fuck’s sake,” Sammy cursed, unnerved by whatever he had hit and interrupted him. He really wanted to ignore the cause of his annoyance, but Norman was already feeling around the floor._

_Sammy’s beat-up banjo emerged, gingerly clasped by the projectionist’s hand. “Seems like your instrument’s gettin’ impatient, banjo-boy,” Norman joked, his laughter sounding like pebbles falling over bigger rocks._

_The composer snorted and retrieved his strings instrument, clutching its neck. “Yeah, I’ve ignored the poor thing lately. I’m not home much and I barely get to play my own instruments.” He strummed a chord and winced. “Jesus, it’s so out of tune. I can’t believe I’ve let it get in this state! The strings desperately need tightening.”_

_“Well, don’t let me interrupt you,” Norman said warmly and rubbed Sammy’s leg in reassurance. Smiling, the composer started tuning his instrument, the first one that he had ever possessed._

_When he was done, he looked up at the gleaming eyes of the projectionist, gazing at him with clear adoration. Sammy’s entire skin burned as he offered his most loving smile, one he had never thought that his muscles could shape._

_Flushed beyond words, the musician did the only thing that he was capable of in that moment – play the most beautiful tune that he knew to the one who had stole his entire being away._

XXXXX

The Projectionist stared at the banjo in Sammy’s frozen embrace. The musician’s fingers got caught in the fret board, contorted over the strings, not plucking them, not moving them. The instrument no longer belonged in his arms. It felt awkward and unyielding under his fingertips, as if it didn’t want to be played.

Henry’s confession hung heavily between them. Boris seemed to be the one the most affected, like he already knew what the cartoonist was going to say next.

However, the composer blankly gazed ahead, reality having crashed over his with unsuspected intensity.

“Sammy? Did you hear me?”

Slowly, Sammy rested the banjo on a crate, letting go of the sudden memory that had passed in front of his eyes. He shook himself off and lifted his head, the cardboard mask over his face reflecting the powerful light coming from the projector head.

“Someone would have died,” the musician spoke, hauntingly. “I heard that part.”

The animator shuddered, but nodded. “Yes.”

“So, you feel it, too. That something isn’t right.” Lawrence shifted on his spot. He crossed his legs and leaned over his raised knee. “He would have died,” he nodded his head to Boris, whose gloves enveloped his cartoonish cheeks in fright.

Henry sighed, defeated. “Yeah. I’m sorry, buddy,” he said to the wolf. “But you’re with us now, right? You’re safe.”

“He was in the pool of voices,” Sammy continued, voice empty as a white sheet. “And I was with him... He would have killed me. No, He had killed me. He had never been my salvation, had He?”

“Who?”

“Bendy, of course!” Sammy exclaimed, as if it was obvious. “I don’t understand. I started my day just the same. I was doing my prayers, and then, something inside me felt different, alien, like it didn’t belong in me, fighting to pull me towards an end. But I struggled. I resisted it. Something changed inside me, inside my head... Henry, when I tied you to that pole. I should have died then, shortly after.”

“What are you saying?”

“He should have killed me. My Lor- Bendy. But I escaped. He was never going to get to you, but he would have gotten to me... Returned me to a place of whispers, where I would have met so many...” Sammy drummed his fingers over his mask, thinking. “Henry, why am I alive? Or, actually – why am I so certain that I should be dead? Why am I remembering things that never happened? Did they happen?”

Henry inhaled uneasily. “Sammy... in the elevator, when it was falling, I felt like I had been there before. I think... No, I’m sure I’d experienced that before.”

“In another life?”

“Yes, it felt that way.”

“Does this situation feel familiar, Henry?”

The cartoonist looked down. He frowned. “No. You don’t belong here with me. Neither of you. I...” He gasped. “Sammy, I think I know something about you.”

The composer perked up. “You do? What is it?”

“I’m not sure... but something about you definitely rings some bells. I don’t know who Joey had employed after I’d left the studio, or at least I don’t remember right now. I refused to go near anything that had to do with animation. I became a comics artist, I didn’t follow up the news. You must understand, it’s been thirty years of trying to forget and avoid anything that had to do with it, but I will try my best and tell you what I recall. I can promise you that.”

Sammy lost what Henry was saying at the numbers. “Did you say thirty years? You have left this place thirty years ago?”

“Yes, I have a letter saying that, It’s here somewhere,” Henry replied, patting his pockets.

“Henry, I’m not certain this place is thirty years old.”

“What?”

“I...” Sammy trailed on, neck tight. “I believe I need some time to think. And also, we should probably find a safer place to hide. We should do some reckoning. Maybe that would jostle up some recollection and everything will make more sense. Yes, we should do just that,” he quickly added, springing up to his feet with urgency.

XXXXX

“I’m absolutely positive that I’ve busted that thing before,” Henry mentioned after beating the lights out of a very hostile merry-go-round carrousel. “But definitely neither of you was with me.”

Sammy hummed, lost in thoughts. The Projectionist was protectively wobbling by his side, prepared to shield him if the need arose. The music director couldn’t help but be flustered by the careful attention he was receiving, and that made him ponder. He wondered if his friend knew more than him, or if he was seeing the same visions as him. The two of them seemed to be connected by the same memories.

Damn it, he wished they had a proper way of communicating.

For now, they settled with only exploring the abandoned amusement park and smacking ink blobs over the head.

After more roaming around, they reached a great ride leading to a haunted house. They embarked it and doors opened for them. They entered into an eerily silent place, filled with idly sitting spooky cardboards and no music. The cart took them to a large room where probably some animatronics should have popped up and scared them, only that none was functional.

With a screech, the wagon stopped, right at the middle of the railway tracks.

“Lovely,” Sammy made sarcastically. “Not just tacky, but also malfunctioning.”

Henry threw him a look and turned to Boris, who was shivering. “Alright there, buddy?”

The first to disembark from the unmoving cart proved to be the Projectionist, who was progressively becoming more apt to control his movements and required less shuffling around to stand in one spot. Using his technical eye, he walked around the passenger’s wagon, looking for whatever had interrupted their ride.

Suddenly, the sound of fast footsteps echoed throughout the room. The four companions looked in the direction of that noise, noticing a foreign woman holding a sword in her arm.

And running with purpose towards the Projectionist.

Before finding any words to shout, Sammy jumped over the cart’s door, shielding his friend’s body with his own and hoping to get the massive creature out of harm’s way before that woman stabbed him through the chest.

She would have definitely succeeded in impaling the composer if the Projectionist’s light hadn’t suddenly intensified, getting right into her eyes and stunning her. Sensing opportunity, Henry threw a saucepan at the woman, knocking her in the head. The pan was the only mentionable weapon they found in their search, yet it proved very effective in their current predicament.

Dizzily, the female fell backwards, the sword flying from her hands. A big wolf with an automatic arm soon emerged from an adjacent door, dashing to his fallen partner.

The Projectionist let out a wail that grazed the musician’s fine ears. He spun the smaller ink man around and grabbed him by the shoulders. Furiously, he shook him, high-pinched noises erupting from the speaker inside his chest and resembling vigorous scolding.

Sammy nearly lost his footing at his friend’s ministration, fully experiencing his anger at throwing himself in front of danger. He clutched the larger creature’s forearms and shrugged him off, then proceeded to patting his chest. “Hey, I’m alright, see? Henry knocked her down, have you seen that? I’m fine, you mother hen,” he quickly assured, trying to silence the brooding Projectionist.

With another shuddering cry, the creature bumped his projector-head against the side of Sammy’s mask. Ignoring what the composer was saying, he shone his light brightly at the two intruders, effectively blinding them.

That aided the two that remained in the cart to see who had attacked them. Boris cocked his head at the sight of another wolf, very similar to him.

“Uhh,” the only female groaned, rubbing her head. She had to squint her eyes, the bright light making it impossible for her to see anything. The Boris clone by her side cradled her head and covered her eyes. “Please, you’re hurting us....”

“You’re Allison,” Henry spoke abruptly, jumping over the wagon. Boris trailed after him, afraid to be left alone in the cart. “And Tom. Right?”

“How do you know our names?” the woman asked, pained. “Please, shut that light! You’re hurting us!”

“You would have hurt us far more if it wasn’t for this light,” Sammy interjected with bite. “You cow-“

“Sammy!” Henry shouted, overlapping with the musician’s slurs. “I know them, they won’t hurt us. Please, Norman, can you dim your light?”

The Projectionist was relentless in his actions.

“How can you know us?” the woman inquired, her eyes still shielded by the wolf’s forearm.

“I will explain it to you,” Henry promised them. “Norman, please, dim your light so we can talk.”

The Projectionist wavered some more, until Sammy’s hand rested on his shoulder. “Norman, listen to Henry,” he demanded and his friend complied, albeit with an undignified tinkle.

“Thank you,” the woman soon said, blinking to regain her eyesight. Her wolf companion growled, but she eased him. “Don’t worry, Tom, we can listen to them. If they had managed to tame the Projectionist, they certainly know something, right? And... aren’t you the Demon’s Prophet?” she asked, pointing to Sammy.

“Retired,” he immediately corrected. “Henry, what did you say about explaining?”

“Not here,” the woman intervened. “Follow us, we can get you somewhere safe.”

Sammy made a clacking sound. “Follow you? After nearly killing us?”

“Sammy!” Henry exclaimed exasperatedly.

“Oh, please, you cannot possibly blame me for being cautious, you sheep,” Sammy sassed. “But fine. Boris, stick close to Norman and me,” he ordered, but the frightened wolf was already at their toes.

XXXXX

They were led through a suite of conjoined chambers and stopped in the largest. It had some crates arranged like chairs and tables, perfect for taking a seat and talking. It looked perfectly comfortable, until one noticed the steady bars right in the middle of the room.

Behind the bars appeared to be some sort of prison cell, with a sleeping bunk and everything.

“I should have been in there,” Henry related with certainty. “Sammy, I think you are right about that thing with the pull leading you. Mine tells me I should be in there.”

“And mine, that I should be crawling through the walls, to a mine shaft,” Sammy resounded, rubbing his neck. “You think-“

“What are you talking about?” the woman asked, looking at the talking men. Her canine companion towered over her slender figure, glaring viciously at the four newcomers.

“Like I said, you’re Allison, and you’re calling him ‘Tom’, right?” Henry asked.

“Yes, that’s us,” Allison confirmed.

“Did you feel anything when you attacked us in the haunted house? Anything, I don’t know, aloof?”

Sammy groaned. “What does it have to do-“

“Yes!” Allison retorted, her sepia-toned face seemingly brightening up. “I did! I didn’t mean to attack you, I just felt as if I had to hurry to protect someone... Protect you, actually. But not from them. It wasn’t supposed to be them... It makes no sense. And, um, who exactly are you?”

“My name is Henry Stein-“

“And he’s a cartoonist or something,” Sammy impatiently quipped. “Look, Miss, I don’t know where this is going-“

“And these are Norman and Boris. And Sammy, but you apparently know him already,” Henry said, glaring at the composer for being so callous. “Anyway, I wanted to talk to all of you. It’s going to sound strange, but I believe I’m beginning to understand. I think we are somehow walking the same steps, over and over, only that-“

“This time, something’s different,” Sammy interrupted. “That’s what I was trying to say, Henry. It started with us, Norman and I, regaining the reins over ourselves. We acted contrary to what we felt the need to do. If I’m not mistaken, you only began questioning what was happening when we first met, right? I modified my speech and you said other words than you would otherwise have, and it was alien for both of us. It didn’t feel like we just became acquainted, did it? No, obviously not, because we’ve already met! That was the moment when things started to change with real consequences, because we were walking new steps. Don’t you see? Things are different, my sheep, yet the body fails to believe it.”

“That’s just... strange,” the woman said, rubbing her chin. Tom put a hand on her shoulder, supporting her statement.

“Well then, welcome aboard, Allison and Tom,” Sammy spoke, looking down at his fingers with clear disinterest. “And a friendly reminder - we only do strange.”

XXXXX

Trying to make sense of everything they knew so far took extensive time and debates that got them pretty much nowhere.

Henry explained to Allison and Tom about their journey up to that point. The lady seemed quite opened to learning more, carefully listening and sharing from her own experience, but her canine fellow frowned at the animator as if he was entertaining the thought of biting his head off. Sammy tried very hard not to intervene every time he heard the woman speaking, not due to having anything against her – besides trying to kill his closest friend, naturally – but because she sounded eerily familiar.

Again, the familiarity of it all was overwhelming.

Sadly, they failed to connect the dots between their individual stories and decided they should allow themselves some rest before going over facts once more. Fresh minds provide better results, as they say, and they definitely didn’t qualify as rested. The four newcomers were exhausted after roaming around for so long, and Allison, who was surprisingly friendly – unlike her wolf bodyguard – offered them a place to sleep in their hideout.

They were presented with another set of rooms and she told her guests that they could get some sleep in there. Boris glued himself to Henry, refusing to be parted from him after listening to what they had been talking about, the strange déjà vu’s they had been experiencing and the inner pull that was telling them to do things of unwanted results. Though, who could actually blame the poor scared wolf?

They were allowed to choose where they wanted to catch their winks. Henry picked with ease, going for the first room with a fairly adequate bed for two people. Boris jumped on it the moment he heard him choose, making the cartoonist laugh at the wolf’s antics. For the other two, however, the choice proved to be far more difficult.

Unable to fully rest, the Projectionist wobbled around after the others, not finding his place anywhere. Sammy offered to keep him company and make sure he somehow relaxed, if that was possible to begin with. Despite Tom’s clear disagreement, the others took pity on the large walking beast and let him alone with Sammy, in one of the larger rooms that also had a bunk, so he had enough space to move around as his musician pal slumbered.

Together in the quiet chamber, brightly illuminated by the projector’s bulb, the two inky people shifted around. Sammy sat on the mattress, thankful to rest his body after the strain it had suffered in the past while.

He had no idea how long it had been since he had last taken a break. Probably not that long, but time really meant nothing in there, apparently.

Just like before, the Projectionist shifted from a foot to another, albeit less frequently. Now, it appeared as if he was moving not to idle, not because he really needed it.

“Are you in less pain, Norman?” Sammy questioned. He extended a hand towards his unlikely friend.

The Projectionist dragged his feet towards the bed, keeping his light as dim as he could. Almost shyly, he extended his hand and reverently caught the other’s in his.

Sammy entangled their fingers, as snugly as he could with his only four digits.

“I gather you’re feeling better, aren’t you? No aches?” he reiterated, and the Projectionist nodded gently. Much to his confusion, the near proximity to the composer dulled his constant pain to a null.

“Oh, I’m so happy for that, Norman. That’s very good. Do you think- do you think you can sit? Or will the cables on your back hinder you?” His silent companion shrugged. “Hm... we should better try it when the others are around, what do you think? In case it’s too hard for you to stand up on your own, we can all help you get up. To be frank, I’m not all too confident that I can pull you up by myself. You’re a big, big boy,” he said, voice low as a whisper. He swallowed hard, tasting ink. “My big boy.”

Their clasped hands tightened at unison. They sensed something far greater than any of them. With his free hand, Sammy lifted the mask over his distorted, dripping face, not fearing rejection anymore. He felt that nothing could ever drive the other away.

Coyly, the standing Projectionist cradled his cheek within his soiled palm that had maimed so many. Delicately, he ran his thumb over its contour as if he was touching glass.

“You remember us, don’t you?” Sammy queried. “You do. Oh Lord, you do, my angel.”

He straightened up to his feet, standing face to face with the bulb of the projector, the gentle light warming up his inky face. Separating their hands, the composer touched the side of the big machinery that shone over him. Gently, lovingly, he caressed its smooth surface, and kissed its edges.

XXXXX

_“How on earth can you find my home easier than I do?” Sammy wondered aloud, leaning a bit too close to his friend’s face._

_Carefully, Norman forced some space between, all the while making sure not to disrupt the musician’s precarious equilibrium._

_It was one of those free nights when the two colleagues went out to some random pub where no one would battle them an eye, so they could enjoy each other’s company over a few drinks. Knowing full well that the day that followed was going to be blissfully devoid of work, they both indulged in their freedom._

_Some hours after arriving at the bar they had whimsically chosen, Sammy suggested they should get some air. He was as tipsy as they come, all flushed and wearing a long, sleazy grin. Norman wasn’t exactly sober either, the room spinning slightly if he moved too fast, so he readily agreed to pace a few steps with him._

_The cold air of the night improved their coordination and heightened their spirits. Keeping up with their mindless chat, jumping from a thing to another, they made their way through a park that, much to Sammy’s surprise, was on the way to his home. It took him far too long to realise that._

_“It’s ‘cause you artists only sees the chipmunks in the forest, not the trees,” Norman explained temperately, sounding very dignified._

_“Oh! Yes, indeed,” Sammy agreed apprehensively. He frowned with the slowness of an inebriated man. “Wait, wait, wait, we’re going home?”_

_“Nah. You’re goin’ home, Mister Lawrence,” the other man patiently replied. “I’m just herdin’ you there.”_

_“That’s unfortunate, isn’t it, Mister Polk? Why won’t you come in?”_

_“How exactly? Bargin’ in?”_

_Sammy chuckled thickly. “No, silly, you go in with me, who has the keys. Come on, let’s have another drink on one of my splendid sofas.”_

_“No-oh, that don’t sound too decent, Lawrence,” Norman feigned a scandalised look, but smiled nonetheless._

_The shorter composer snorted and bumped his elbow into Norman’s side. “I’m seven drinks past ‘decent’, you righteous pole,” he told. “I intend to get to ten.”_

_....._

_Inside Sammy’s home, the two men made themselves comfortable in the parlour with the grand piano. It seemed to be the room where they kept on returning to have a night cap and a chat under the warm light of the foot lamp behind the sofa._

_They were discussing some new motion pictures, trying to decide where they should go the following day. At first, Sammy entertained Norman’s proposal of going to a play to his taste, but after reading the weekend’s programme from several theatres, he found not even a single show where they might still find tickets available that spiked his interest, or that didn’t posses some dreadful music. If they didn’t find anything tempting, they could very well enter through the personnel’s side of the theatre and make camp in some corner without having a ticket, after Sammy worked his charms on the ticket lady. Not an ideal situation, but some plays were staged in far too small halls, really. Or they might even hunt for a bar concert or something, because they stood no chance to find seats for any classical concerto or opera in such short notice._

_Maybe the moment when they remembered to actually book tickets a week or two in advance would come one day. That might be an idea._

_But they didn’t worry - there were plenty of options for whatever they decided to do, even if some of them weren’t exactly ethical._

_In the meantime, they managed to finish another glass of scotch, dug up by the composer from Lord knew where. The gramophone was playing one of Sammy’s favourite vinyls and the lights were dim in the pompous room. They were both tired after the long day they had had at work, with barely met deadlines, needless edits and modifications and many other problems, although together, they forgot about the hardships and indulged in the better things in life._

_Sammy began yawning fiercely, his right cheek moving against Norman’s shirt as he failed to stifle the gapes. The taller man kissed the top of his head. “You should go to sleep, Sammy,” he suggested, talking into the other’s golden curls._

_The musician shifted slightly to get closer to his friend. “Will you follow me? I like it when you sleep by my side.”_

_Norman sketched a little smile that went unseen. “Sure.”_

_“Thank you,” Sammy whispered and escaped from their warm embrace. He laid his tumbler on the coffee table and beckoned Norman to follow him._

_It wasn’t the first time that the projectionist was spending the night over. Every time, they were doing the same ritual, feeling each other close and enjoying that little intimacy. Things never escalated into anything more, something beyond a mere snuggle and some rolling around the sheets doing precious nothing. And that was fine by them._

_It was quiet. Safe._

_Beautiful, in its own innocence._

_They always slept easier during the night, when they were together._

_....._

_Just as always, they reunited in Sammy’s bedroom. They were too tired for changing their clothes for the night, only shedding what was uncomfortable to sleep in, such as ties or suspenders, ignoring how their shirts were going to rumple and that they have been wearing them for a while. Lazily, they both plopped down on the soft sheets, smiling sheepishly at each other. Sammy’s delicate fingers caressed the harsh, strong jaw of his partner, and kissed his square chin. Smirking, he moved his supple lips to his mouth, leaving a butterfly peck there, a bit like velvet over skin._

_Softly, they locked their lips. Norman’s hand found its way on the other’s narrow back, whereas Sammy cupped his ear and twirled his fingers in his dark hair._

_They could have fallen asleep like that, wrapped up in each other and content in their cocoon. If only Sammy hadn’t moved his head. His eyes were droopy and his cheeks were flushed as he gazed intently at his partner on the other side of the bed. He bit his lower lip and shuddered._

_Norman smiled at him, the skin at the corner of his mouth crinkling. He marvelled at the unnatural beauty of his too dear friend, sharp as a blade and elegant as a feather on a lady’s hat. Encompassed in gold._

_He involuntarily swallowed, throat too dry, and he was suddenly too aware of his hand resting on his loved one’s back. He didn’t want to take any step forward or back, afraid to disrupt their perfect balance._

_But the artist’s eyes were gleaming like jewels and his breath was stuttering, as if he was suffocating._

_They stared at each other, at a stale mate, with the air growing denser and tenser between them._

_Like waves forming in the sea, they forgot precaution and let themselves loose. Their mouths clashed against each other, more naturally than breathing. Teeth clinked hollowly and tongues licked wetly, mindlessly, like they had volitions of their own. Their heads spun, as if they were drunker than they actually were, and their arms wrapped tighter around each other._

_It was peaceful, amidst that storm, all a calamity of harsh breaths and soft shudders. Their kisses were passionate and heated, making them all too heavy on their pillows._

_Rendering them unexpectedly awake._

_All too sudden, Norman acknowledged his partner, his supple muscles, his mellow skin, his sharp angles. The bird with no feathers, tight as a coil and lean like a violin’s bow, with a voice of angels hiding the deepest of sins._

_His arm was clenched around Sammy’s narrow waist, holding him close._

_This was going somewhere they had never gone. Beyond the mere shy looks and the scorching touches._

_Norman willed his muscles to unclench, afraid to advance, where the other might not want to go. They had been drinking and, despite none of them being anything more but a little fuzzy, he didn’t want to ruin their little thing. Pure, peaceful thing._

_He pushed the slighter man off him, as gingerly as he could, creating a small gap between the two of them. Sammy exhaled powerfully, deflating like a balloon pricked with a needle. His pupils were blown, surrounded by the perpetual coppery greenish circle, sometimes battling into blue. It was hard to discern the many colours in his hazel eyes when they were drowned in deep lust._

_His reddened lips stood agape, trembling with each feathery breath._

_It was almost too much, to watch that handsome creature look so lost, damned without its support. All smothered by a need lacking resolve._

_Not knowing what else to do, Norman wetted his lips. Even his throat was constricted. “Sammy...,” he whispered, knowing that if he let his seesaw voice cut though the air, it might rust. “May I touch you?”_

_The composer smiled, looking so boyishly and free, unshackled from the daily burdens, the deadlines, the fear of having his work butchered, from complaints and useless co-workers. His white teeth showed, glowing in the faint light, canines sharp and twitching to bite. “Of course, silly.”_

_They both inhaled the moment those words were spoken. With emotion, with anticipation. No dread, only craving._

_Their lips found their rightful places again, against each other, in the way they ought to be._

XXXXX

The inky man followed the smooth, stained sides of the projector with his fingers, and kissed them worshipfully. The memories were flooding his head, so vivid in his mind.

“Norman,” he muttered, voice caught inside his throat. “Do you remember it? How we loved each other, my angel? How close we were, how we looked into each other’s eyes? You had the most dangerous eyes, my gentle heart, gleaming and unyielding, but once you really saw them – you were drowning in their ocean, like I did.” He felt a hand clutching his shoulder in understanding. “You were mine, my love, and only mine. And I gave myself to you, and we were perfect, do you recall it? Like your eyes, not matching, but so beautiful together.”

The static coming from the Projectionist’s broad chest rumbled, like it was struggling to form speech.

XXXXX

_As if he feared falling off a cliff, Sammy wound his hands behind the nape of his partner’s neck. His long, fine fingers got tangled in Norman’s hair, rough like all of him, and pulled their heads impossibly closer. Their tongues rolled around each other wetly, invading through the bridge between their teeth._

_They were out of breath, yet they remained captive inside their tight embrace. The composer’s thumbs massaged his lover’s earlobes, trailed over his closed eyes, his cheeks, his jaw, mapping it all and finding it hard to rest in one place, wanting to feel it all. His strong neck, his rigid tendons, his rough skin._

_Norman’s hands slipped down the musician’s clothed back, following the curve of his spine, suavely undulating underneath the hem of his dress pants. He grasped only cloth, but it was so close to the skin that it burnt him._

_His palm crept onto one of the other’s fleshy buttocks, and squeezed._

_Sammy grinned into their kiss and shifted even closer to the other’s chest. “Yes, my angel,” he murmured, barely audible. “Do whatever you want to me. I desire it. I wish it all. You, my heart.”_

_To prove his point, one of his hands went lower on Norman’s chest, fondling the muscles underneath the fabric._

_In a wave of sheer will, he was pushed on his back. He was pinned down and his pants tightened even more, remembering the first time that Norman had brought him home and banged his hand against the wall. That power, albeit unintentional at that moment in the past. He needed it to sweep him up like a leaf, take him and do whatever it willed with him, because he was so weak and eager for it._

_With a palm gently caressing Sammy’s cheek, and another feeling up the side of his abdomen, Norman towered over him. He felt like a starving man that fed on souls, desiring his beloved’s every shudder and breath._

_Norman had always been too curious for his own good, and once again, he couldn’t help the itch to know more. Slowly, he unbuttoned Sammy’s shirt, unveiling pale, taut skin leading to a surprisingly hefty chest. He slipped it off his arms along with the undershirt. The projectionist had to break their kiss to look at the solid curves of his partner’s shapely torso and his flat belly, lowering and inflating with his heavy breathing._

_Forgetting that he had planned to go slowly, he attached himself to Sammy’s neck, showering it with kisses that turned into heated nips as soon as they passed under the collar._

_Sammy carded his fingers in the other’s hair, being a mess of gasps and unconcealed grins. His chest was peppered with caresses and stinging bites, making him tremble with unearthly desires, rising to follow that unholy mouth of his surprisingly passionate lover. He had never imagined that the brick of a man could ever show such unveiled rawness, such primal yearning for another. For him._

_Though there they were, and he loved every second of it._

_The composer’s hands couldn’t stay idle. He niftily made work of the other’s shirt and made him discard it, so fast that they barely lost contact of each other. He felt up the strong muscles of Norman’s back, always hidden in his striped shirts or overly-formal attires that undermined just how taut and sturdy he actually was._

_Greedily, he attacked his collarbone, wanting to leave his mark, too. He bit particularly hard on the defined pectoral underneath, earning a growl from Norman, who pulled his head by the hair and kissed him hungrily, like a wolf._

_It was satisfying to be the sheep, for once, devoured by the fanged beast._

XXXXX

Sammy could barely understand what he was doing, moving his hands over the shiny, inky lumps of the Projectionist’s hard chest. He palmed him, his bony shoulders, his broad back, the unnerving speaker and where the wires were piercing into his body – and he couldn’t stop himself.

The larger beast pawed around the inky man’s bare torso, feeling the ink slip through his fingers. He was so lucid that he could at last fully concentrate on what he was doing, relished from the heavy burden of his continuous pain. He restlessly cupped the former prophet’s forms, all over, touching him with a longing that no creature like him should ever possess.

The composer’s mask fell on the bunk bed behind him, landing with a soft sound. Freed of the obstacle, he kissed his friend’s neck, right where it was jutting out of the projector’s base.

The Projectionist quivered. He lifted Sammy up by the middle and pinned him to the closest wall. The lenses constricted his movements, so he effortlessly brought the light man to a side table. Groaning impatiently, Sammy made him rest his projector on his shoulder, as heavy as it was, so he could kiss his chest better.

Understanding, the Projectionist lowered Sammy’s suspenders from his shoulders and off his bare arms.

XXXXX

_Their naked chests were pressed together. Norman’s clever fingers slipped between them, cupping Sammy’s supple pectorals and harshly playing over his nipples, dragging them around with the heel of his palm as he stroked his tender skin. It was endearing how big those hands felt over the musician. Sammy smiled into their kiss and wrapped his arms around Norman’s neck, impossibly happy._

_The moment those hands reached the hem of his pants, Sammy’s breath hitched. His body was springy as an elastic, back undulating to press the loins forward. He thought he might faint when his crotch was grabbed without ceremony. He bucked up, right into his tormentor’s hand, deciding it wasn’t the time to paint himself the damsel._

_He pressed harder, showing just how welcomed that hand was. How welcomed its owner was._

_Their mouths departed slightly, just so they could see each other’s eyes. So sincere, full of hunger and filled to the brim with unadorned lust._

_And radiating love._

_Daringly, Norman ran his fingers over the hard length that was evidently twitching underneath the fabric. Sammy gasped and let out a moan through his shiny lips, his vision suddenly unfocused, in a way he had never experienced before, not to that intensity. He blinked rapidly, struggling to keep the other’s black and blue gaze._

_The moment the hand slipped into his trousers, and into his briefs, he swore he was going to slip through the mattress._

_The pressure over his crotch became unbearable. He was panting from almost nothing, but it was all so good, so perfect. He kicked his bottoms down his feet and off his ankles. Just like that, he was left denuded on the bed, in the surprisingly cool air of his bedroom. Or maybe it was his skin burning up like the scorching summer sun._

_Sammy was rather uncertain out of the sudden, standing like that, naked, rock hard and flushed in front of another man. Man who was acceptingly smiling at him and lovingly caressing his skin._

_The composer mewled, loudly, sounding foreign even to himself, but he just couldn’t give a damn. He was with his dear Norman, who didn’t care that he yelled at people, that he snapped for no reason, that he sometimes deserved to be shoved into a trashcan and thrown away into the ocean. Who just brazed through whatever the hell mood Sammy was in, and laughed with him at odd things, and took him home in the evening and showed him the stars when things got out of hand._

_Poesy was soon lost when he was tentatively stroked. His erect member jumped along with him, and Sammy let out a litany of interestingly musical sounds. He mindlessly jerked into an attempted thrust, but was pressed down, back onto the mattress, and tortured with, possibly, the slowest rhythm in which someone could rub a cock._

_In retaliation, he grabbed Norman’s stocky backside and wondered how come he had never noticed how nicely defined it was. He squeezed it hard, assessing the fleshy mounds that had no right to be clothed at that moment. He didn’t even notice his thighs being pampered, leaking appendage left forgotten on the belly, due to being so concentrated on getting the other’s pants off._

_After a great deal of fumbling, the said pair of trousers and some very unnerving underthings were pushed away by a petulant Sammy, who promptly threw them out of the bed. They landed with a clack on the floor, probably coming from the belt._

_“Easy there, Lawrence,” Norman made huskily, not averse to the brusqueness, albeit taken slightly by surprise. Though, knowing how the composer dashed from a place to another when he was in a hurry, he shouldn’t be._

_The appraising huff he heard from beneath him took him out of his reverie, returning to the situation at hand._

_“Oh, God,” Sammy rasped, out of breath, staring blatantly at the other’s very nicely sizeable length. Carelessly, he threw one leg over Norman’s waist, rooting him between his spread thighs._

_The weight of the other’s heavy cock over his belly, so close to his, made the composer dizzy. He had never thought himself capable of such reactions he had only read about from his uncle’s vast – and compromising, at times – library. He was leaking, he was needing, and he had no idea how he was going to fit someone inside him._

_Well, he would find out by trying. After all, that was what music was all about._

_Experimentation and practice._

_But damn it all, he wanted to learn that craft at once._

XXXXX

It was the first time that inky body was feeling any want, any arousal, and it was burning him from the inside. Pressed to the edge of the table, in a room close to the ones their companions in the forsaken studio were residing, Sammy couldn’t care less. They were more than welcomed to gawk. He wouldn’t give a hoot if they decided to break the door. Only that moment mattered to him, the way he was glowing in the projector’s diffuse light and how he was held up on the tip of his toes.

His suspenders were dangling by his legs and he wondered if he could open his ink soiled pants. To his delight, the button and the zipper were working.

Slightly pushing his larger partner away, to allow being seen wholly, he released his pants from around his waist and let them crumple to the floor.

The light enveloped him like a loving hug, his arms, his shiny chest and abdomen, his slender hips and his proudly standing cock, an inky rod that was dripping the same black substance that was shaping him up.

His nimble fingers trailed over the Projectionist’s arms and waist, trying to make out if there was any way to unglue the barely visible clothes that seemed to be stuck to the other’s drenched body.

All that groping awarded him with the promise of a waistband and something that felt like a belt. He made quick work of them and managed to lower the front, revealing an equally excited inky member jutting out from the assortment of ink stained clothes.

Sammy chuckled playfully at how the Projectionist unceremoniously grabbed his hips. “Glad at least some parts of you are the same as I remember them,” he said and wrapped his naked, shiny thighs around the other’s waist. His muscles tensed with a shudder as his buttocks were immediately grabbed to support him, and spread widely.

XXXXX

_Sammy choked back a moan at the feeling of a slick finger circling his arsehole, thumb pressing into the back of his ballsack and lips abusing his protruding collarbone. When the blunt fingertip breeched, he groaned, happy to be alive for once. It was so very odd, but he actually enjoyed its wrongness._

_He seized Norman by the shoulders, probably breaking the skin. The taller man grunted in his neck and licked around, keeping an eye on what he was doing so he wouldn’t hurt his partner. And for the sake of peeking, naturally, because he wasn’t made of stones._

_Sammy was pulling his hair and slicing up his shoulder blades with his nails. It was so exhilarating. His lover pressed his index finger further into the tight, warm canal, feeling muscles squirm as he advanced and hearing the musician hit funny notes in his ear._

_Norman carefully thrust his finger inside, very attentive to Sammy’s skin jumping every time he repeated the intrusion. He added another digit and began rubbing his dick in tandem with the preparations, eliciting more noises from the artlessly vocal musician._

_His hand began prodding faster after adding a third finger, brushing inside Sammy and stroking him in places that none knew they existed, both enthusiastic with their discoveries. The movements got swifter, from both of Norman’s hands, one on Sammy’s weeping cock and one inside his arse. Completely lost, the composer muttered things behind screams of pleasure and thrashed on the pillow._

_Enraptured, Norman extracted his hands and pulled the music director’s wavy hair towards himself, kissing his lips with need._

_He grabbed Sammy’s thighs and spread them even wider. They both shivered as he pushed his prick inside for the first time, muscles rippling exquisitely as he slowly entered that pliant body that radiated with heat and desperation._

XXXXX

Sammy’s voice cracked when he felt the entirety of his inky lover penetrating him fluidly. He tightened his grasp around his shoulders and his waist. The table where he had been positioned groaned under his weight, and electricity coursed through him, making his toes sting.

“Good Lord, Norman, fuck me already,” he growled, sounding like a purr that was engulfed in rasps and grumbles. A hand supported his twitching hip, the other clasped his cheek, and he met each powerful thrust as hard as he could.

Bouncing viciously on the Projectionist’s stiff dick and feeling his own slapping itself uselessly against his glowing abdomen, the composer bit his partner’s shoulder, tasting ink and hearing the radio static turning into shrieks.

XXXXX

_Sammy groaned as he was prodded relentlessly. It had been slow and gentle at first, but none really cared for any of that right then – they needed the rawness of it, their hearts beating harder._

_Norman was so large inside him, so imposing, flexing his hard-worked body and slamming his impressive length hard into the elegant composer, now a mess of sweaty curls and gasps. He tightened his grip on his hips, altering their position, and Sammy began screaming from the bottom of his lungs._

_‘Nearly blind in an eye, gonna be deaf in an ear,’ Norman thought amusedly, listening to Sammy’s deep voice cracking and turning into shrills at the end of each wheezing breath._

_He kept on delivering, shoving himself into his arse, not rushing, but with thundering force, the sound of skin slapping against skin reverberating in the room. Sammy was clawing his back and arms, biting and licking and shouting dramatically, meeting his thrusts eagerly and demanding for more in stuttering slurs._

_He started rubbing the abandoned cock and the musician’s back curved, allowing Norman to hold him up with one hand. Sammy planted his nails into the forearm jerking him off and, with wide crazy eyes and a guttural cry, he came spasmodically over his lover’s hand and their chests._

_He collapsed in glow, too sensitive and drunk on air. Norman was by then hammering into him, bruising and so damn good, and Sammy was dangling with his legs spread, grinning and jolting at each movement. His loins ached pleasantly, satisfied despite his greed that craved more than he could take in his overly stimulated state._

_Shakily, he put a hand over his belly and noticed how the cock in him was protruding from within his abdomen, then disappearing and raising his slender tripe again. He felt his lover moving, from inside and outside, and he knew he was complete. Alive, in the arms of someone he loved, at last._

_He opened his eyes, not realising he had closed them, and saw Norman’s usually placid and uninterested orbs watching his face with adoration. He noticed the milky blue in his damaged eye and the deep dark abyss in the other, both fixed on him, and he felt so small under that gaze._

_The way they fought not to close when Norman finally couldn’t take it anymore and shot his seed into that overwhelming body made Sammy’s heart flutter, and his insides fell over the edge again, excited and exhausted._

_He had never seen anything more beautiful, nor heard anything more sublime than Norman letting loose. And he wished for it again._

XXXXX

Quivering with satisfaction, Sammy felt the ink propelling and spreading inside him as they finished, and he grinned like he always did when his partner came in him. A bit like a fool, lopsided and out of breath.

He wrapped his hands tighter around the large body of the Projectionist and kissed his shoulder. Much too gently for the monster that he was, the poor helmeted creature caressed his bare back, showing as much affection as his deformed body could provide.

“My angel, you saw it, too, didn’t you? I know you did, oh, Norman,” Sammy whispered, turning the projector’s bulb at his face. “You kissed me and hugged me and held me close, and I played with your hair. I kissed your temples, you handsome brute, do you remember that, too?” he asked him, pressing the hallowed orifice on his damaged face to the side of the projector. “And I told you that I loved you, my heart, and you smiled so broadly at me.”

The Projectionist seemed to nod and did his best to envelop the smaller body within his long arms.

“I still do, Norman, my light in the darkness. Even here, even now, I still love you so dearly,” Sammy spoke softly and chuckled when he felt the arms around him squeezing him.

He kissed the projector’s front once again, where his lover’s mouth should have been. “We will find what happened to you, my love. We’ll find a way to turn you back to normal.”

The Projectionist really hoped that there was a way, too, because he really wanted to laugh right then, peck Sammy’s nose and call him a sentimental.

But, then again, that’s how artists are, he used to say.

Yet, what did he know about that? He had only ever cherished one, and he was standing right in front of him, grinning like a sheep with black teeth.

Oh, yes, he knew that artist well.

He knew that he was the only one for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da, that’s it for now. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Leave me a few words in the comments section, kudos if you'd like, any appreciation is very much welcomed. Thank you kindly for reading!  
> See you soon with another cartoon! Ta-ta!


	6. Chapter Six – A Broken Pen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mornin’! Here’s the new chapter of this story. I hope you’ll enjoy reading it! Things are beginning to lose their merry tone the closer we get to the end, but the sun is always rising after the night, as they say. Please let me know what you think of this new entry, thank you very much for reading!  
> Per warnings, we have the same lovely slurs with the new addition of some violence, nothing too much. This chapter will also contain a snippet from a scene that is referred in the official novel of the game, a work of fiction to which I have absolutely no claim whatsoever (voilà, I haven’t said the disclaimer in way too long). There’s no need to have read the book, so no worries if you haven't.  
> So, all said and done, let’s carve into the pie...

**Chapter Six – A Broken Pen**

_Sammy’s head throbbed ghastly that evening._

_He thumped his forehead against his desk. The sound was lessened by the amounts of papers that were perched one atop the other, in a large pile. He banged his head on it again and carded his fingers through his hair, messing up his styled locks._

_The sole reason why he remained in his office, with that bloody pestering valve humming in his ear, was Jack Fain, who was supposed to come over to discuss some lyrics. So far, Jack was taking his sweet time to arrive._

_If Sammy hadn’t valued his sense of smell, he might have materialised the idea of dragging the lyricist from the sewers himself. However, he quite liked being able to sniff anything without the stench of rotten fish sprinkled over._

_He rubbed his forehead and slicked his hair back, deciding he needed to get out of his office. Otherwise, he might tear the freaking pipe behind him out of the wall._

_Without even a shadow of remorse, he grabbed his stuffy composition notebook and left the room._

_It was well past the working hours, but there was not such a thing as respecting the schedule for Sammy. If something had to be composed, it had to be composed. Simple as that._

_He went through the empty corridors of his department to the recording room. Wanting to seat on something softer, he went for the piano bench and crossed his legs after he sat down. He straightened his back and felt his headache lessen, but not disappear._

_He desperately required a restful night._

_Of course, Joey had made sure that he wasn’t going to get one any time soon, God forbid. They had five episodes without sound and the music needed to be worked from scratch for them and recorded by the end of the week, which was in two days._

_It was actually quite generous of Drew to notify him in such generous advance. Sammy needn’t complain of the marvellous planning. There was a reason behind it all._

_Only that the thoughtful Big Man in charge could have told him he had plucked those episodes from his arse the previous week, when they were being pencilled and stashed away to be resurrected when they would eventually go into production._

_In layman’s terms - the communication in the studio was phenomenal. The lack thereof, that is._

_Everything made Sammy want to thump his forehead on the fallboard, too, since he had hit it against whatever he could find that day. Damn it, was he pissed off by his boss._

_Carelessly running his fingers through his now unruly hair, he wondered if Norman had finished his work. He could use some company. Preferably someone to tell him he was still sane, maybe even a little trip to the rooftops._

_Good Heavens, how on Earth was that man still putting up with him? Almost one year of being together and Norman had yet to entertain the thought of hanging him. That wasn’t too bad, now that he thought about it. Sammy rather liked his head where it was._

_He sighed._

_“Is the musical genius waiting for me, his humble servant?” Jack Fain’s nasal voice cut through the silent room. Sammy gave him a look that threw daggers at him. “Hey, Sammy, no need to shoot me. I’m your friend, you might want to point the arrows in your eyes at someone else. I can suggest you a few people.”_

_“Get in line, Jack, I’ll be taking suggestions after I finish with my own list. But, as things are... you might have no one to direct me to, after I’m done.”_

_“You’re a force of the nature, Sammy,” Jack praised and waved with the thick file in his hand. “You aren’t the only one working around here, but you definitely are the only one who does it with such a fuss.”_

_“After all these years of working together, Jack,” Sammy made, sounding disappointed, “you still don’t know that I only write masterpieces, and such works demand sacrifices and a proper fuss, as you call it.”_

_“Lots of shouted publicity, far as I’m concerned,” the lyricist idly commented._

_“Excuse me?”_

_“Uh, Sammy, I don’t think that’s what you meant to say. Isn’t art supposed to speak for itself?”_

_“Isn’t it you who doesn’t want to be found face first into the sewage next morning? Though I can assure you, I’ll shed a tear when they discover your body. After all, I’m not a monster.”_

_Jack chuckled and patted his boss’s back. “You’ve such a way of convincing me, my friend.” He gave him the files with the lyrics without adding another word._

_Sammy leaned back, balancing perfectly on the bench. “Indeed, I do.” He peered through the papers, skimming through the drafts for the new episodes._

_Not keen on drowning for speaking out of line, Fain reserved his next moments to look at his friend. He appeared slightly unkempt, as if he had played with his hair excessively, and the collar of his shirt wasn’t perfectly aligned. When the composer leaned forward and returned to a straight sitting position, the suspenders’ straps kept the shirt in place, making it run lower on his neck than normally, exposing the smallest amount of his back, right above the undershirt._

_He struggled to prevent himself from wolf-whistling as he noticed the starting point of what looked like nail scratches and a round suction bruise._

_The need to tease his perpetually tense colleague proved to be overwhelming to the usually kind lyricist. It itched him where he wasn’t supposed to scratch. He was going to burn his hands, he knew it already. Luckily, the only endangering aspect of the composer was his tongue, not his teeth. “So, uh, Sammy, been up to anything interesting lately?” he implied not too smoothly. “Getting out of the house, seeing someone, the works? Actually, say, my friend - why don’t we grab a pint later?”_

_Sammy felt the urge to slap Fain. “Oh, I’d love that. I’d love to shove you that pint up somewhere! Just pick a part of the body, will you? Do you realise how behind we are, Jack, or am I the only one who knows how to read a schedule?”_

_“Umm, mate, I’ve just seen you have enough time to bang your head on the piano, so I figured you might have some left to spare for a little, uh, talk between buddies.”_

_The music director opened and closed his mouth. He sharply spun his head around, to glare at his subordinated colleague. “Talk. Talk? Are you sure you want to push my buttons right now, Jack? At this precise moment in time?”_

_“Uh, no, God forbid, Sammy,” Jack replied nasally, “I’m a peaceful man, I like my tranquillity. But, uh, I thought you might want a bit of a breather, for once. Maybe an ear or a shoulder to lean on, I don’t know. You’ve been very dodgy for some months now.”_

_“Jack, Jack, Jack,” the composer spoke with disapproval, “don’t you know I have no time for breathing?”_

_“And that’s why you’re about the first one discoverin’ how to live without air, Lawrence,” the studio’s projectionist commented uninterestedly as he entered in the recording room. “But, seein’ how you demand for fresh blood before rehearsals, I’ve got half a mind you’re more vampire than human.”_

_The lyricist chuckled good-naturedly at how furious Sammy looked. “You know, Norman, if he didn’t get so red when he’s angry, I’d actually go for your theory.”_

_“Sheep, both of you! Lord, such calumny that I have to endure!” Sammy bit back, rolling his eyes with dejected emphasis._

_Norman made a face of deep consideration, nodding with great understanding. “Right... Well then, Lawrence, when you’re over your existential crisis, you might wanna have a look at these,” he said, giving an unlabeled file to the head of the department._

_Sammy took it quickly, glaring at the taller man who was as interested in his antics as he might be in watching the paint dry. Resigning to his fate, he opened the file. And frowned. “Norman,” he demanded, “how come you have the drafts that I’m not going to receive sooner than next week?”_

_“Uh, by askin’ for them? You should try that, Lawrence, add a bit of a ‘please’ at the end and you’ll be surprised what you can get.”_

_“Hmpf,” Sammy huffed._

_“Not in his vocabulary,” Jack translated._

_Norman smiled tightly, his pointy eyebrows not lowering towards his eyes. “Well, I’m gonna let you to your things. Oh, and Lawrence, try to keep those things hushed up somewhere, I know you weren’t actually supposed to see’em yet, but God knows y’all need a break.” He averted his eyes towards Jack. “You too, Fain.”_

_“Thanks a lot, Norman,” Jack retorted gratefully, motioning with his head. “Still have some work for the evening?”_

_“A-yuh, havin’ to fix some faulty tapes or we’re gonna ship empty boxes to the screens. So, I’ll be on my way. I’m gonna leave you two some coffee in the kettle next door, if you want some. Probably not the best, but bad coffee’s better than no coffee.”_

_“Huh, that’s certainly true,” Jack said. “We appreciate it, Norman. Good luck with your things!”_

_“Likewise,” Norman retorted just before leaving the recording room._

_As soon as the man was out of sight, Jack elbowed Sammy right in the ribs. “Auch, what the heck was that for?”_

_“You’re a proper asshole, Sammy Lawrence, you know that?” the lyricist scolded. “Poor bloke got us the stuff we need to finish sooner and go home before midnight, and you can’t even say some lousy thanks?”_

_Sammy grunted, his headache accentuating. “I’ll make sure to apologise,” he spoke sourly. “For now, back to the matter at hand, Jack. These stupid soundtracks aren’t going to write themselves, you know.”_

_....._

_Later that night, it was Norman who found Sammy wondering around the studio._

_“Lookin’ for someone?” he asked, right behind the composer who jumped up like a spring._

_“Fucking hell, will you stop sneaking behind me!” Sammy exclaimed, panting. “Jesus.”_

_“So, got that right, hm?”_

_“Yes, you smug ass, I was looking for you. Happy?” Sammy put a hand over his racing heart. “You’ve given me a fright, I’m starting to believe you’re trying to kill me.”_

_“If it’d be that easy,” Norman pondered. “No need to be cryptic, magpie, oh no. I won’t kill you for a long time, don’t worry.”_

_“That’s very considerate of you.”_

_“Yup, that’s me, always very considerate to you,” the projectionist said with amusement. He put a hand in his pocket. “Is your head botherin’ you any longer, dove?”_

_“How did- never mind, I should stop wondering how you know things, even if they went unsaid,” Sammy corrected himself._

_“I ain’t no mind reader, if that’s what you wanna say. And, hear me out – I ain’t particularly interested in what’s going in that floater of yours either. So, the headache?”_

_Lawrence snorted as he shrugged. “It’s better... it became manageable after I drank some of the coffee you’ve left us. I suppose some thanks are in order.”_

_“No fret, it’s good to hear that. And good to see you ain’t standin’ like you’re turnin’ ninety with osteoporosis, too,” Norman noted, walking alongside his colleague towards the exit. “You’re too bitter and tense, Sammy, no wonder your head hurts.”_

_They arrived at the back entrance. Sammy sighed and rubbed his temples, closing his eyes as he did so. Norman made sure to open the door for the shorter man, who seemed not to see where he was going and was in the danger of colliding with everything that stood in his way. He doubted that he actually realised he wasn’t in the studio anymore._

_“I know, I know,” the composer made, finally opening his eyes. “But, agh! I swear - I will strangle that infuriating, exasperating son of a bitch if things keep going on like that. Do you know what Joey told me today? Don’t answer, just humour me,” he quickly added. “He said that he believes that tight deadlines are the key to success! If we have too much time to think, we’ll become lazy and our work quality will diminish. Who the fuck says that, Norman? I write those goddamn songs as if I’m in a frenzy! I never know what I have to write until it’s almost too late, and brilliant Joey Drew marches in to tell me that it’s for my own good to be on the verge of insanity!”_

_A gentle hand on his shoulder eased his raging heart. He looked in its direction and was met with the kind eyes of his dear friend._

_“I’m so sorry, Norman, I really should stop taking it all on you.”_

_Not even for a second, the smile on Norman’s face didn’t diminish. “And take it on some sad hick who’s got no idea why the blazes you’re so angry? Na-ah, parrot, I’m here to listen and make sure you don’t run into any walls, don’t mind it.”_

_Sammy’s expression turned into surprise when he finally realised they were in the parking lot. He simpered with gratitude. “You really are a treasure, you know. I can barely tolerate myself lately, it’s a mystery how you put up with me.”_

_“Well, well, now, what heinous sins are you atonin’ for that got you so apologetic an’ pious out of the sudden? In danger of gettin’ kicked out of Hell’s eternal fire, are we?”_

_“They want to send me where the spikes are kept under locks, just imagine.”_

_“Ah, the horrors,” Norman jested. He looked from side to side as they passed a crosswalk._

_When they got to the other side of the road, keeping up a forlorn face, Sammy placed a hand on the other’s forearm. “I speak truly. I’m sorry for being so...“ He chewed on his next word before spitting it out. “Insufferable.”_

_A bushy eyebrow lifted on Polk’s forehead. “Burns you to say it, doesn’t it? But, lemme tell you a bit of a thing, you peacock – you’ve been insufferable for as long as I can remember you. I resigned myself to it, you ain’t gettin’ any more sufferable than you are.”_

_“Oh, then lucky me, hm? Being so accepted?” Sammy mused._

_“Mhm,” Norman hummed. “Come on, let’s get you home so you can get some sleep, you look like your feathers got ruffled in the washin’ machine.”_

_“You’re jealous your plumage isn’t as elegant as mine. Pigeon.”_

_“A-yuh, precisely that,” the taller man responded with mirth. He watched Sammy as they walked, wind catching in his wavy hair and making it float along with the coat he had draped over his shoulder._

_“Seems like the wind is picking up,” Sammy made after a while, looking up at the sky. “Do you think it’s going to rain?”_

_“Doubtfully, but who knows?”_

_The composer turned his head back to the walkway. They were already entering one of the parks that lead to his house. “Norman, can I ask something of you?”_

_“Hm?”_

_“Do you mind if you come over? It was-” He inhaled, uneasy with what he was about to say. “Well, it was very hard to sleep these past days. I know, you have your own place where you haven’t exactly been for more than a few days at a time in a while, but-“_

_“Of course, magpie,” Norman accepted without thinking further. “Truth be told, I didn’t get much of a wink, myself. It’s too quiet without you, Sammy, missed you snorin’ the wallpaper off the walls.”_

_“I am not-“_

_Norman snorted. “You sure as hell are, Lawrence, like a damn tractor sometimes. But it got its charm. Reminds me of home down in the South during the harvest.”_

_“You make the worst compliments.”_

_“Why, that’s a well known thing,” the projectionist said. “Can I request for somethin’, too? Can you please play somethin’ once we get in? I know you’re tired-”_

_“No, no, it’s okay. I can do that,” Sammy interrupted, grinning brightly. Lately, he found himself longing for the other’s happiness in ways he had never done for anyone. He was still as selfish as they come in his daily life, because he really didn’t care about the others. But for Norman, he had developed a soft spot he liked to tend to as often as he could. “I actually wrote a song for you,” he confessed._

_“I’d love hearin’ it.”_

_The composer pulled his coat from his shoulder, looking ahead. “Then I shall play the fiddle tonight, angel.” He turned his head with a smile. “Just for you.”_

XXXXX

Light shone over Sammy’s distorted figure, bathing his dark, naked form in glow. He shook his head, regaining sense of his surroundings.

Aware that he was obviously being watched, he carefully lifted his clothes off the floor and slid his legs in them. Once in place, he adjusted his suspender straps over his shoulders and smoothed the sides of his pants.

He felt something poking his forearm. “Oh,” he muttered, noticing the object that was used to draw his attention.

It was his mask, helpfully held up by the other inky creature.

“Norman,” he said as he took the piece of cardboard. He studied it, turning it on each side. He noticed the strap, silky and soiled with ink. Looking back up, he hoped that the smile on his featureless face was visible. “Thank you.”

The speaker inside the Projectionist’s chest rumbled, and it sounded awfully similar to the tone the man he had once been used when he was telling him not to bother with something.

Sammy took a step closer to him. With a gentle hand, he touched his darling’s shoulder above the gash from where a reel case was jutting out. “No, no, listen. Thank you. I haven’t said it enough, back then. Back when the memories happened. I should have said it more often to you. I’m sorry.”

The Projectionist mimicked the gesture and put a protective hand on the other’s arm. Keeping his smile intact, Sammy pressed his deformed face over his lenses, which seemed to blink for a moment.

They departed slowly. Taking his hand, the conductor brought the humming beast towards the utility bed.

Still looking at each other, they sat down. Realising that his partner finally managed to bend his legs and he was at last seated, Sammy grinned, displaying a dark set of teeth dripping with ink. He discarded the mask on the stained pillow, and placed his head on the Projectionist’s bony shoulder. “Let’s rest, my heart. Hopefully, we haven’t been heard.” He chuckled, more air than sound. “Not that I really care. All that matters to me is here.” He kissed the inky skin under his cheek and closed his eyes.

XXXXX

Right when Sammy woke up, knocks began rasping against the door. He straightened up and blinked a few times, adjusting his eyes to the light in the room.

The knocking persisted. “Ah, no rest for the wicked,” he said and patted the Projectionist’s strong thigh. He stood up, revelling in the pleasant ache that enveloped his body. He picked up the mask from the pillow and noticed the light behind him moving higher, a sign that his bed mate got up by himself, despite his previous worries.

After properly adjusting the mask over his face, Sammy opened the door. Allison, whose fist was raised to thump it again, smiled sheepishly. “Good morning, Sammy! Or, um, I suppose it’s morning. I have no clock.”

“Good morning,” the former prophet greeted back warily, still sore about their incident. “I gather everyone’s up.”

“Yes, we’re all gathered. I thought you might want to join us.”

“Of course,” Sammy accepted the invitation and looked back, where the Projectionist was rotating his wrist. He stood straighter than before, as if a heavy load had been lifted off his back. Bursting with joy at the visibly improved condition of his beau, the musician refocused his attention to the woman with less spite. “Lead us, please.”

XXXXX

As it seemed, everyone was indeed up and about.

They were all gathered in the prison room, seated on the same crates and chairs as the day before. Just like then, the two wolves were glaring at each other, whereas Henry was smiling kindly. “Morning! Rested up nicely?”

“Quite,” Sammy replied without skipping a beat. “By the looks of it, so have you.”

“Yes, it was good to lie down for a while. But we should get going.”

“Where?” Allison asked, distress etched on her face. “You’re safe here, you can stay a little longer.”

Henry clicked his teeth. “Thing is, we’ll eventually have to leave. All of us. I don’t mean to be rude, you and Tom have been very welcoming with us, but it’s not safe in here.”

Sammy pointed a sharp finger to the cartoonist. “You remembered something, didn’t you?”

Henry nodded his head. “Precisely. We still have some time left so I can explain. I had some very strange visions when I closed my eyes, as if I was seeing myself from afar. Only, it was all happening in here.”

“In the studio?”

“In this very room. In the present and close future.”

The composer scratched his neck. “Not a memory, I see. A premonition, perhaps?”

“I thought so, at first,” Henry admitted. “However, I realised what it really was. Do you remember our talk about the pull from the gut and the way things felt different? That something else should have happened? Well, I’m starting to see what changed. When I close my eyes, I see myself in the same place, doing different things than I’m actually doing. For example,” he said as he shut his eyelids, “now, I see myself on the cell’s mattress, looking up at the ceiling. And I know what followed soon after.”

Allison cleared her throat. “Um, okay. You’ve said something about this the last time we spoke, but I don’t understand-”

“I told you. We are reliving the same events,” Henry repeated himself with the same idea from the night before. “I keep having this feeling, that I should be doing things very differently, and after seeing what I have... I know I’m not delusional. I’m seeing something that happened in the past. Only, that it isn’t in the past. Not really. My suspicions were confirmed after studying the walls with the looking glass that you’ve given me before we went to sleep, Allison. There are scripts on the walls, instructions and warnings. They might have been left there by someone else, or by me. Though it wasn’t a present me, nor was it a past me. It was a continuous me. Do you understand?”

Tom made a grumbling sound, and Allison soon spoke. “I agree with Tom. I’m not sure I follow what you mean, Henry.”

Sammy produced a low hum. “Oh, but I see. You mean we are in some kind of a, what, a groundhog day? A repeating sequence of events?”

Henry nodded vigorously. “Yes, exactly that. Practically, a loop of very specific events, happening over and over again in the same way, and only we are aware of it, like the world doesn’t know it’s resetting itself.”

“How peculiar!” Allison exclaimed. “But it would explain why I was so certain that I should attack whoever was in the haunted house. It wasn’t you two,” she said, pointing at Sammy and the Projectionist. “It was a woman, she was trying to get to Henry.”

“Alice Angel,” the cartoonist said.

Allison confirmed it with a determined nod.

“Okay, lovely,” Sammy commented. “Only that Alice is now in a bit of a state, smacked across a wall. So that’s the variation. And... oh! This is even lovelier,” he continued, remembering the similar feeling he had experienced. The loop, the sinking sensation that he was doing things in a wrong order, that he had to say certain words that he didn’t wish to speak. That he was undertaking different actions that he should have, that he was in a place where he’d never been before. All the memories that resurfaced because he realised something was strange. He was starting to understand.

“You,” he pointed with one of his unnaturally straight fingers towards Tom, who was almost startled to become the centre of attention. “Yes, you! You put an axe into my head!”

“Exactly!” Henry exclaimed, too excited for the situation.

“Oh, you seem rather pleased with that,” the composer snarled.

“Sammy was trying to decapitate you,” Allison intervened. “I think I see it, too. Parts of it, at least. And Boris and the Projectionist-“

“Norman,” Sammy insisted.

“Excuse me - Boris and Norman,” she corrected herself, “weren’t there, when it happened.”

The former prophet snorted. “Fabulous that we are discussing my assassination with such jolly, but I must ask – where were they? I really don’t know that. I was dead, after all. Seems I’m the most likely to be slaughtered.”

Henry crossed his arms. “Not that likely, you were first killed when you tied me up, and the second time was when you appeared out of nowhere and I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else, you were screaming that I had-“

“Abandoned me. Betrayed me,” Sammy spoke hollowly. “That’s what I was saying. I am not sure about whom, though... might be Bendy, or someone else. Or both, peg me confused about that. So yes, I’ve been killed twice. Makes perfect sense. What about Norman? Where was he?”

“He um, became a victim to the Demon.”

“You poor thing!” Allison wailed. “It must have been dreadful.”

It was hard to say if the Projectionist cared much about the woman’s sympathy, because he was fixated on the animator’s face.

“Norman spotted me,” Henry trailed on. “I had to run and hide, he almost got me. I hid inside a little Miracle Station and I was sure that he was going to open its door. Then the Ink Demon arrived. Norman landed some blows on him, but in the end, the Demon won.”

The usual soothing static in the Projectionist’s speaker turned into a warning cry. Everyone turned their heads at him, amazed by learning that he had managed to hit the monster. He put a hand around his throat and jerked it up.

Sammy gasped. “He strangled you?”

“No, that would have been kinder,” Henry related. “He detached his head from the body and threw it at me. The Demon left with the rest of his body and I managed to escape the booth after he was gone.”

“And our wolfie?” Sammy demanded, voice tight.

“He survived the elevator crash, but he didn’t survive Alice. He was turned into a mindless beast.” The cartoonist patted his canine friend’s back. “I’m sorry, buddy, but it’s good you’re here with us, now.”

The composer sat down on a crate that groaned under him. He crossed his legs, keeping his back as rigid as a board. “You said Alice. Alice Angel, from the posters.”

“Yeah. Sammy, I know she’s a cartoon character, but she seemed to know you. She said you were a handsome man. And a liar.”

“Handsome and a liar,” Sammy echoed. “I quite like the description, has a ring to it. Alas, I’m not sure how she could have known me, I’m- Wait. I think I know who she was.” He frowned. “Oh my God, that was Susie! My muse!” he spoke with pathos. He slapped the cardboard over his face as if he was telling himself he had been dumb until that point. “I thought she sounded like someone I knew! What happened to her? She looked like she was melting and sounded so wrongly when I heard her! Henry, did you know what a beautiful voice she used to have?” he asked, recalling the woman he had seen in his first memory, the one he dodged inside the music room.

Stein smiled morosely, sympathising with the composer. “Was she your girl?”

“My girl? Heavens, no! No, no, she was my lead voice actress. She...” Sammy’s put a fist under his chin. He thought about Susie, whose features weren’t very clear in his head, but he felt that he knew her later fate, even if he didn’t receive any memory about her. “She was sacked,” he relayed, uncertain about how true what he said was. He might have listened to a tape about it, but he wasn’t sure. “Ugly business, no one told her about it. She was replaced with another actress, a certain Miss Allison Pendle. Isn’t that you?”

Allison looked at the inquisitive faces staring at her. “Me?”

“Oh, yes! I remember now!” He quickly tapped the Projectionist’s leg. “Norman, you remember it, too, right?” The creature confirmed it with a nod of his projector. “We all worked together. I was the music director, like the sign in my department said... and you must be Tom! Thomas Connor!” he waved towards the frowning Boris clone. He didn’t understand how he knew all that. “Yes, you were only sweet with our Allison. I remember you. You were such a sour grape. Beat me at that, if you can believe it.”

The only woman in the group spoke up, “You were- Henry, what’s he saying?” Her eyes wandered from a face to another.

Henry rubbed his chin. “I’ve played a recording from a certain Susie Campbell, complaining that she’d been replaced with Allison Pendle. She was mentioning she’d seen her with Sammy... she was crying. But now, that I say it out loud...” He stopped speaking for a moment. “Sammy. Remember when I’ve told you that I knew something about you? I think I know what it was, now that you mentioned this Susie lady...”

“Hm? What was it?”

“I left Joey some thirty years ago, to handle the studio on his own. This studio. But it closed down.”

“Who’s Joey?” Allison asked. “I don’t remember him, I only saw his name on a banner.”

“We’re in his studio,” Sammy told, sounding very sober. “He was the big boss, if I’m not mistaken. Not too long ago, I recalled him ruining a rehearsal. It was the first memory I had since I became aware of myself.”

“Yes, Joey Drew,” Henry spoke with urgency. “He is- was my friend. Doesn’t matter, what I meant to say is it was very strange when the studio was shut down. They were making big hires one moment, then it closed. I tried to ignore it, but I read about it in a newspaper, completely by accident. After that, I had to follow it through, you know how it is. And I distinctively remember a big scandal and that you, Sammy, had gone missing.”

“Me? Missing?”

“Yes. And many others from the studio, like this Susie, if I remember properly, but you were the most resounding name. You were well known.”

Sammy straightened again. “I went missing? That doesn’t sound like me. I think, at least. I’m not sure how I really am, I’m still collecting the pieces. But disappearing... no, I wouldn’t do that.”

Allison bit her lips. “If all you said is true, then how did we end up like this? What happened to us?”

“I don’t know, Allison,” Henry replied frankly. “Whatever it was, I can cross my heart it had something to do with Joey and the reason he told me to come back to the studio.”

The lamp abruptly began dangling from the ceiling. They all looked up, apart from the Projectionist, who was quick to direct his long arm to a blackening spot on the wall.

“And unless you also hope to die, now that you’ve crossed your heart, story time is over,” Sammy ushered them, being the first to stand up. They grabbed whatever weapons they found at hand and left the safe house in a hurry.

They were having the Ink Demon as a guest, even if he hadn’t been invited by anyone.

XXXXX

Running away from the tongues of ink staining the wooden walls, the mismatched squad arrived in front of a large ink river. They traversed it with the help of a dubious barge, barely making it to the other ford after being attacked by a Giant Hand jutting out of the vast waves of ink.

What they encountered on the other side was a giant place that resembled a pauper’s crammed neighbourhood. All around them, creatures of ink wandered and cowered away from them. However, they all seemed to take a moment to bow whenever they noticed Sammy. The composer stared back at them with a clenched stomach.

“Why are they making reverences at me?” he mused out loud. The Projectionist, who was walking by his side, made a noncommittal sound. “Babble all you want, dander head, but they seem to worship me. You should, too,” he suggested in a lower voice edging on teasing as he smugly fiddled with one of his shoulder straps.

If the Projectionist had had a mouth, he would have laughed. In its absence, he merely looked away, ignoring Sammy.

The others were already giving them weird looks, not understanding what was with them, but thankfully, no one commented anything about it. Anyway, there were less than half of them that could talk, and one of them was Sammy, who wasn’t about to relay anything to them.

Allison gazed around apprehensively. “I suppose they consider you some superior being, you kind of look like them. At least they don’t seem hostile, we might be able to make a temporary camp in here.”

“That’s an idea, but let’s find a remote place first,” Henry suggested. “We don’t know just how friendly they really are.”

The search of that remote part took them longer than expected, but they found it. It was next to some big boxes stacked one atop the other in an assemble that wanted to imitate a small farm, with a little fence around it. It was quiet and away from the privy eye, yet they had a good vantage point and an escape route if things went awry.

Anxious to explore, Henry picked up his axe once again. “I want to have a look around.”

“I’ll come with you,” Sammy offered without being asked. “This place rings some bells, I think I received a crack in the skull somewhere around here. Maybe once we find the exact spot, some clue will jostle up.”

“We’ll stay here, then,” Allison said. “We’ll be fine, we have weapons and let’s face it, no one would dare challenge the Projectionist. They all fear him.”

“Alright. Sammy, let’s go.”

The composer put his palms on his hips. “Wait, I don’t get a weapon?”

Henry looked around, not having anything to give to Sammy. The Projectionist offered him a pipe he picked up from the floor.

Underneath the mask, Sammy glared. “A pipe. How very special.”

“Do you have anything against them?” Henry asked.

“I feel some aversion towards them, don’t ask me why,” he replied. “Though it could come in handy. Thank you, Norman.” The big creature shone his light on him and Sammy nodded.

“Stay safe, we’ll return soon,” Henry promised.

The two artists travelled through the spacious rooms, impressed by the cooked-up architecture. It almost resembled a proper village, with small houses and little gardens, everything made out of boxes and wood. Toys were scattered around and some inky creatures held them close to their thin chests as they crawled back into the shadows. No one looked like a threat so far. The inhabitants of the place seemed actually quite placid.

As time went on, they were starting to wonder if they both had imagined the mine shaft where an alternative Sammy had showed up from. They turned every corner upside down for nothing.

“That’s strange. I thought you’ve reached the place easily,” Sammy commented levelly.

“I did, it must be somewhere around here,” Henry said frustrated. His frown evaporated. “Ah, here it is! That’s from where you came out, screaming bloody murder,” he related, pointing to a decrepit mine entrance.

“Hm, funny. I don’t remember much of the place, but I guess it’s understandable. I was too busy getting an axe to the head.”

“You know better than I do.”

Henry cautiously advanced towards the wood barricade, afraid something dangerous might pop out. Naturally, with Sammy not bent on murdering anyone, no one emerged. Tightly clutching his axe, he examined the spot. Beneath the heavy wood, there was a dark wall, dripping with ink.

“Definitely looks like the sort of place I’d get out of,” Sammy made.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Henry said. “Remembering anything useful?”

The former prophet shook his head. “Not really. How odd, right? I should have died in here and yet, I feel nothing. Not even that obnoxious pull.” He lifted his hand in front of the barrier, curious of what might happen if he touched the ink underneath.

He refrained from it.

“Well, what a waste of time. You’ll have to pardon me, Henry, but my memory seems to awaken whenever it pleases, not when it’s needed.”

“It’s alright, we’ll figure things out in time. We’ve gotten this far, right? We know we’re reliving events in some sort of loop.”

“Yes, yes, that’s important,” Sammy muttered under his breath. He was unnerved that his mind wasn’t cooperating with him, not providing him anything useful, like it usually did.

Behind his back, Henry mumbled something, but Sammy didn’t quite catch it. He was too aggravated to hear anything besides his grumbling thoughts. He turned around, ready to leave, but collided with a slick panel that had erected up from nowhere.

The ink was thick and cold against his body. It trailed down his arms and chest, loudly spilling all over the floor. Sammy felt suffocated, seeing nothing but darkness and feeling liquid shift over his body like a second skin.

In horror, he batted his hands around, haphazardly gesticulating, struggling to get the curtain of ink away. He scratched his chest, his arms, his neck, screaming in sheer agony.

He was relieving his worst nightmare, the laughter booming into his ears and the coldness splitting him open, and it wasn’t going away, no matter how much he clawed at his skin.

XXXXX

_That morning, Samuel Lawrence almost murdered his alarm clock when it rang - ‘almost’ being the operative word._

_Unfortunately, the old piece of machinery didn’t give in, stubbornly holding up together despite its owner’s many abuses. It barked like it was possessed by hellhounds, grazing his eardrums._

_Groaning, the composer shifted to deactivate it with a vengeful smack._

_The resilient clock shut up with the promise of repeating the performance the following day._

_He rolled on his back, abandoning the softness of the pillow he was resting his face against. He put an arm on the other side of the bed and found it empty. “You’ve become a sap, Sammy Lawrence,” he told himself as he looked at the cold pillow next to his._

_It was one of those sad occurrences when Norman was not sleeping over, having had to solve some personal matters. He was entitled to go to his own place, obviously, but that didn’t take away from Sammy’s right to lament._

_He found those nights quite bleak. That brick of a man had grown on him in ways he wouldn’t have ever imagined. He couldn’t believe they had already celebrated two years of steady relationship and some more of good friendship._

_Who would have thought?_

_Stretching as he walked out of the bedroom, he paced to the telephone. He dialled the number he rang every morning when he was alone. His call was soon answered with a clink._

_“Morning,” he grunted into the receiver, yawning loudly._

_On the other side, a sinister laughter rumbled, making the composer smile. “Good mornin’, sunshine, ain’t you up early,” the rough voice of Norman spoke over the line. “An’ here I was, havin’ thoughts of lettin’ you sleep longer.”_

_“With the new deadline? I’ll sleep when I’m dead, the way things are,” Sammy grumbled. “Well, I called to say I’ve woken up, no need to check on me later.”_

_“Slept well?”_

_“I’m as tired as an old piece of chewing gum. My eyes hurt, my back’s stiff. How do you think I slept?”_

_“By the way you sound, magpie, you lead me to believe we’re gonna bury you today. Should I dress for the occasion?”_

_“If you can wake me up after this deadline is over, I might take on your offer. Call it, hmm.... vacation in a coffin.”_

_Norman laughed throatily. “You ain’t gettin’ off the hook like that, Sammy.”_

_“I know, I know. Well, should I assume you’re not in the same decrepit state as I am?”_

_“Oh, no, not gonna take your spotlight by complainin’ about my state, duck, don’t you worry your pretty head.”_

_Sammy huffed. “Well, I’m off to getting myself alive and presentable. I’ll see you at work.”_

_“I’ll bring some coffee with me.”_

_“If you could only bring the coffee, without yourself, you’d be a miracle worker, Norman.”_

_“Deprive y’all of this gorgeous mug, you mean? Nah, you ain’t getting that kind of miracles, birdie.”_

_“I suppose I can tolerate your face today,” Sammy said, looking at his fingernails. “Now. I’ll go get myself changed. However,” he spoke into the receiver, voice dropping abruptly, “I would only have to put clothes on if you were here, not have to shed the ones I’m wearing first.”_

_A chuckle erupted on the other side of the line. Norman seemed to be in very high spirits that morning. “You know how to get dressed and undressed, so hop on to it. Dressin’, I mean. We wouldn’t want your productivity be diminished by y’all obscure thoughts.”_

_“Oh, you’d wish you knew how obscure they really are, big boy.”_

_Norman snorted, probably shaking his head. Sammy couldn’t see him, but he knew him. “Get your curls done and get goin’, princess,” the receiver buzzed._

_“Okay, okay, you grouch, thank you for spoiling the only fun I get this morning,” Sammy replied, and hung up. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he decided he should probably listen to what the other man recommended. Otherwise, he would be very late._

_....._

_Work proved to be infuriating that day. The attempts on any songs sounded dreadful. The rehearsal in the morning went about as well as a snail running after a carrot. Everything sounded awfully off-tune. The musicians kept on getting ahead of the melody or behind. A string broke at some point._

_Plainly, it was a disastrous beginning of the day. The only saving grace was the lead voice actress, Miss Pendle, who came in to pick up her lines for the next recording. She acted just as professional as they all had become accustomed to._

_But the rest? A resounding disaster._

_Sammy wasn’t superstitious by nature, nor was he seeing omens at every turning point, but things were really going nowhere. He snapped at the band some more and eventually let them go, aware that they weren’t going to do much that day. It wasn’t a recording date - small mercy - otherwise, he would have had to make good use of his powerful lungs and larynx. And of his most colourful language._

_After the band was dismissed, Sammy went out of the music hall, in search of inspiration. Some musicians remained behind, probably to practice, but he couldn’t give a single damn at the moment. He was seething with dark intentions and they’d better stay where they were – out of his sight._

_He went to his office, to get some work done. He had some administrative papers to look into and an employee schedule to analyse before going back to his sheets. Therefore, he didn’t need to go to his quiet place. Not that he could, because people were still in the band room, though that never proved to be a problem. Sammy had no qualms with kicking them out without an explanation. He’d done it on several occasions._

_Just as he was scribbling his signature on an activity report, his pen broke into two pieces. “Are you fucking kidding me,” he cussed, throwing away the pen into the trash. The paper was smeared with ink, barely legible. “Shit, shit, shit,” he repeated, getting angrier at the sight of the ruined papers. He brought his hand to his eyes and stared at the black blotches spreading over his skin. He wiped it on a handkerchief, soiling it beyond repair._

_He clicked his tongue over the teeth. “You know, what, Joey? Fuck your papers, I’m a freaking composer, not a secretary. You can wait.”_

_With that, he slammed all the papers back into his in-tray, and went to retrieve the composition notebook from his bag._

_He skimmed through it, thinking about what he wanted to write. He had a fairly simple idea that would work nicely with one of the scenes of the new cartoon, so he might as well start from there._

_He closed the notebook and left it on the sofa in his office, going out to scavenge some reference sheets and, since he was at it, some paper and a new pen. He had made a fine work of his former one._

_Humming to himself, he first went to the sheet music deposit. It was a glorified closet with overcrowded files filled with the many works that Sammy had composed over the years. He stored them neatly for reviewing them whenever he was asked to make a parallel with a certain episode or when he needed to revisit a certain tune. There were plenty of reasons to keep tabs on things._

_His study at home was stuffed with such notes and old sheets, stored there for legal reasons and sentimental value. But most important, at his domicile he kept his artistic works, written for concertos. Many of them were in a safe, locked away with the hope of a better time for the musicians. Sammy had bigger ambitions as a composer, already seriously considering working with an orchestra and production labels. Hell, he even had very generous offers made._

_Yet, there he was, inside a crammed closet at Joey Drew Studios, rummaging for merry jingles and silly tunes._

_‘Why on Earth am I not leaving this place, already,’ he wondered, searching for a specific file. Oh, yes, the financial stability in an otherwise messed up economy. Right._

_A noise over his head made him look up. ‘Oh, bother, how could I have forgotten about Joey’s sublime pipes,’ he wondered, anger bubbling in his throat. He had no idea why it had been so impetuous to install a freaking pipe filled with ink in a closet that contained papers. What did they even need pipes for, in a music department? Who approved such stupid projects?_

_‘Joey fucking Drew, that’s who, genius,’ he replied to himself. ‘Babbling twerp, always getting in my job’s way, expecting me to barf up songs on command. Ah... there’s no time for remorse. Not now, Sammy, not now,’ he continued in his head, sounding exceptionally frigid. ‘We have a deadline to meet. It might be summer, but don’t you let the bastards see you sweat.’_

_Exhaling the deep breath he had been holding in, he straightened his back and pointed his chin forward, effortlessly poised with the perfect amount of determination mingling with rage. Because, after all, he was still unnerved by the damned pipe over his head and all the others in his department. And let’s not forget about Joey Drew, his fantastic employer, who was responsible for their existence._

_He picked up the sheets that he wanted. Just like he always did, he took a second look around the closet, just before leaving, making sure everything was in place._

_When he moved to leave, a horrible crash erupted right above his head, cutting through the perpetual bubbly sound inside the small deposit._

_“What the-“ Sammy began, looking up. All of the sudden, a sharp pain cut through his head, as if he’d been stabbed, and cold, slick substance began falling over him in vast quantities, pouring with it like it was heavy rain._

_Startled by the impact, he opened his mouth in shock. Liquid entered into it, invading his throat like medicine being shoved down by the medics in a psychiatric ward._

_It tasted putrid and sour, just like ink._

_The pipe in the sheet music closet had broken over him._

_Sammy struggled to get out of the stifling spillage. The ink kept on dropping over him, enveloping him, getting into his eyes, his mouth, his nose, his ears, everywhere. He could barely breathe and he couldn’t find the exit to the goddamn closet which wasn’t even that big. The door must have closed itself behind him._

_Ramming his back against the door that opened without a sound, the terrified composer fell backwards, out of the pipe’s range. He was entirely covered in ink, suffocated by it and feeling it breaching through his oesophagus like tumbling rocks and getting into his stomach, forcefully, as if it wanted to get inside him._

_Wailing in agony, he tried to get the substance out of his eyes, clawed at it desperately to clear his nostrils to breathe. It was to no avail, because even if he had escaped the torrent, the thing seemed to keep on collecting over his face._

_He haphazardly fought to get away. He crawled on his hands and knees, floundering to get up as he was chocking on the ink that was constricting his airway. It seemed to wrap around his neck, almost like it was trying to strangle him._

_Feet moving aimlessly, he grappled with the thick liquid that was roaming over him like soap to the drain. He produced otherworldly shouts, fruitlessly battling for any control over himself. The ink was taking reign over him, smothering him and invading his innards, as if it wanted to cut him from the inside and emerge out of his disembowelled body._

_He had no idea where he was. All that he saw was pitch darkness. The buzzing in his ears was deafening, resembling hysterical laughing. He screamed in pain and fright, not understanding what was happening to him._

_That moment, Sammy believed he was going to die. He had to be. But he kept on going, banging himself into walls and nearly breaking his bones._

_His airway was somewhat clearer by then, yet the goo was still stubbornly stuck on his skin, obstructing his vision. He barely made out the shape of a frame with his hands and clutched it tightly, using it to force himself forward._

_Nothing could save him from the unholy ache that was twisting inside the pit of his stomach, so all he could do was run until he collapsed from it._

_Deep cries spilled from his chest as he scratched his eyes. At this point, he would have been capable of clawing them out, only to stop the horrifying burn he was experiencing._

_He collided with something soft. It seemed to be a person who was speaking to him - he was distinguishing some new sounds over the fuzz in his ears. They both fell flat on the floor, Sammy on top of whoever he had encountered. His hand blindly darted forward and clutched a collar that he brought closer to his face._

_He rolled on his back, striving to regain his surroundings. He didn’t know where he was and his head hurt horribly._

_“My eyes!” he moaned, voice high-pitched and pained. He painted everything on the floor with the thick dripping substance that was glued to his skin and shrieked like he was being roasted on a pitchfork._

_He picked up some faint words, something to do with water and a rag. He waved his hands around, hoping to catch whoever was talking to him and take the promised items from them. Suddenly, someone grabbed his wrists and shoved a cylinder into one of his hands and a cloth in the other. Sammy fumbled with his beacon of hope, sloshing the water from the glass over his face and rubbing furiously with the fabric. It was a futile attempt to clear his face, giving him as much hope as drinking salted water when dehydrated. The ink was going nowhere, he was certain that he was never going to see again, besides that infinite darkness that plunged his sight._

_He was never going to write again, never going to play his instruments, never going to see his beloved’s eyes._

_Yet, after an eternity, he saw the light._

_He opened his eyes, bloodshot and blurry, barely seeing anything. One moment, he was panting with extortion and the next, he was not, gaining more control over his body with the recovery of his vision._

_Trying to recompose himself, he let his arms fall by his sides, along with the soiled rag and the glass that rolled softly into the pool of ink. He lay on his back, blinking. Far calmer, he inhaled a few steadying breaths, thankful for tasting anything but the ink getting into his mouth. He could feel the liquid still dripping off his head, smeared all over his face, but he was able to see and breathe, at least. He stared up, at the ceiling, recognising the band’s section of the recording room._

_“You okay, sir?”_

_He took a moment longer to study the familiar ceiling and the shadow of the projection booth upstairs, knowing with unshakable certainty that it was empty at the moment._

_Returning to the matter at hand, he lifted himself on the elbows and noticed a worried boy in front of him, tall and lanky and watching him with big, wide eyes, fretting with the collar of his heavily stained shirt. The kid seemed to be even more terrified than Sammy had been, as if he had seen a monster preparing to dismember him. Though he wasn’t actually that far off the mark._

_The well-meant question infuriated the composer to no end. He let his vision pierce through the teenager standing at his feet._

_“Am I okay?” he asked, echoing the question. He laughed, shaking his head. He was not okay, he was bloody fantastic!_

_“You’re bleeding,” the boy said, gesturing to the top of his head._

_Sammy slowly brought his hand to his scalp, feeling something jutting out. He pulled a shard out of his forehead, flinching as it got out completely and thin liquid slid down his high cheeks and towards his chin. Sharp pain coursed through his nerves but he chose to ignore it, far more interested on reversing his ire on the poor boy. “Who the heck are you?”_

_The boy stumbled over his own words, trying to say that he was the new gofer for the Art Department and was called Buddy._

_Well, good for him and nice that he had practically saved the conductor from ink asphyxiation, but he hadn’t managed to erase Sammy’s current irritation. Nothing could, only perhaps a bath in his boss’s blood, and he was not going to get one._

_The absurdity of that image made him laugh with no joy, no sound, only a whizzing huff coming out of his throat and getting out like it was the last shudder of a dying man. “Art Department,” he said in a balanced, low voice, his eyes gleaming like a panther’s. “Okay, gofer for the Art Department, riddle me this,” he continued, vibrating with the growing need to lash out at someone. “Why are you guys storing ink in my sheet music closet?” He cocked his head to the other side, his pointy face appearing sharper than ever. “And why is Joey running a pipe through my closet that’s apparently filled with ink?”_

_“I don’t know.”_

_The poor kid stared at Sammy in a powerful mix of confusion and dread. It was clear that he had no idea about what he was talking, and it would have been more sensible of him to let the boy go. But Sammy Lawrence had never been a fully sensible man to begin with._

_“You don’t know,” the composer once again repeated the teenager’s words. It was even more preposterous than the mental scene of Joey’s homicide. “You don’t know,” he said again, laughing hard, silently, but visibly. He could feel the ink trailing down his teeth, having already stained his gums and tongue._

_Enraged, he darted up to his feet and mustered up enough force to get a hold of the boy’s elbow. The poor kid was still talking, continuously saying that he didn’t know. Sammy wanted to show him just what he meant when he mentioned the pipes in the sheet music closet, so he dragged the teenager along the hallway, still dripping with ink and getting it all over the floor. But who the hell cared? The wood was already impregnated with the dark substance from when he had staggered to the recording room. They were merely following his footprints._

_The ink finally congealed over Sammy’s body and his hair became stiff under its weight. He craved up to his teeth to punch something, but first, to show the kid the blasted closet._

_He pulled the bewildered boy towards the widely opened door, making him step over shards. Glass broke under their feet, and every time one of their soles lifted, ink sloshed back under._

_The closet was flooded with pitch-black ink, rivers of the substance coursing down the tall shelves, imbuing everything. The spillage seemed to have stopped, but all the files were utterly destroyed, probably beyond repair._

_Good thing Sammy had copies of everything at home, but Lord, it was heart-shattering to watch his work, hours of bone-rattling work saturated with black. Unusable. Useless. Pointless._

_“This is the music sheet closet,” he spoke, finally letting go of the boy’s elbow and shoving him face-first into the damage. The kid nearly collapsed, some shards flaying as he kicked them accidentally. “And this is the ink that shouldn’t be here,” Sammy added, pointing to some unlabeled inkwells. “And this,” he motioned for the ceiling, “is the pipe that is inexplicably running with ink and has managed to burst.” He lowered his arm, his eyes boring into the boy’s skull. “Ruining unmentionable amounts of my sheet music.”_

_The kid who was called Buddy didn’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation. Sammy might have the copies of the sheets, but the ones in the closet were the official ones, exactly as they had been recorded._

_Oh, and far jollier - how they hadn’t been recorded, because they didn’t get around them yet._

_For those, he had absolutely nothing beside some rough drafts at best._

_“Okay,” replied the boy, placidly inspecting the room. Sammy stared at him, blankly, and the young one returned the gaze._

_“Okay? OKAY?” Sammy made indignantly. Nothing was okay, for fuck’s sake!_

_Exhaling, the composer glared at the ink on the shelves, dripping on the floor. It was a disaster. Joey’s pipes, all that ink, everything was a plain disaster, and Sammy was certain that he was going to lose his mind. He was covered from head to toe in coagulated ink, his clothes were destroyed and worthy to hit the dumpster. His precious suspenders were strained against his shoulders, damaged and never to be clean again. And, to add salt over the wound, the cravat that Norman had gifted him for his birthday earlier that year was soiled and would never be wearable again._

_He adored that freaking cravat. It was lime green with small emerald diamonds and it made him give no hoot about how hot it was outside. He just enjoyed wearing it._

_Fucking Joey Drew, ruining everything, even the little things that brought him joy._

_And that kid was standing rooted there, dumbfounded, not understanding the severity of what had happened._

_Sammy shook his head, cursing everything and everyone in his head. His boss, the studio, his rotten luck. He stepped closer and closer to the other person in the closet, until he invaded his space, leaning forward until his ink-clogged pores were perfectly defined to the boy. Expansively, showing his stained gums and tongue, he gazed right into his eyes and delivered his biting words one by one, his tone low and curt. “Clean. Up. This. Mess.”_

_With that, Sammy turned on his heels and stormed out of the closet, away from the frozen ink fountain._

_He walked with purpose, wanting to get as far away from the place. He needed to clean up as much as he could, find some new clothes, and go back to work._

_He was seething with fury, feeling it seep through his now inky pores. He stomped his feet towards the toilets, where he desperately hoped he could be alone with a sink._

_Just as he was turning on the first corner, Norman’s face caught his eyesight._

_The man’s expression turned from disinterest to surprise, and then straight into horror, recognising who he was looking at. “Sammy? What the hell happened to you?” he asked, rushing to him. He lifted one arm to touch him, but Sammy reacted violently. “Don’t touch me! You’ll get this shit all over you!”_

_“Is that-“_

_“Ink! Fucking ink!”_

_“You need to get cleaned up, Sammy.”_

_The composer had a crazed look in his eyes. “Oh, and don’t you think I know that?”_

_“There, there, Lawrence, I’m just statin’ facts. You wanna blow your steam on someone? I can get you to’em, but don’t you blow it on me, hear it?” he said, rough voice edging on scolding._

_Sammy sighed, rubbing his dirty forehead. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I just-“_

_“Shush it, you yapping crow,” Norman interrupted, pointing his index finger at the drenched man. “You drove here today?” A nod. “Perfect. Come on, it’s lunch time, no one’s gonna see us leavin’. We can get you home and return you in mint condition.” Another nod. “I’ll drive. Do you have your keys right now?”_

_“No, they’re in my bag, in the office.”_

_“Okay, give me the office keys, then. Or you left it opened?”_

_The composer sighed. “It’s opened, I was just-”_

_“You stay here, Sammy,” Norman ordered, already hurrying away. “I’m gonna be back in a tick with your bag an’ we’re off,” he said right before disappearing behind the corner._

_Sammy swallowed drily, his throat stinging from the amount of ink he had ingested. He felt like he was going to vomit his stomach out. He swallowed again. He had already made a mess out of the place, his soles having left black marks all over the floor. There was no need for his innards to get on the hardwood._

_Norman returned in a blink, holding Sammy’s messenger bag on his shoulder. He led them to the back exit. Luckily, they didn’t meet with anyone on their way out, besides Jack Fain who was clutching his usual bowler hat. The lyricist promised to tell Wally to clean up the floors and make up some excuse if anyone looked for them._

_Inside his car, carefully bundled in a blanket, so he wouldn’t stain the leather seats, Sammy finally closed his eyes. “Once again, you seem to be my personal angel,” he spoke, keeping his eyes shut. “I should start calling you Alice.”_

_By his side, Norman rasped a chuckle. “An’ once you do, I can assure you I’m gonna help you go down the rabbit hole.”_

_“Wrong Alice. But I believe I’ll stick to your name.”_

_“I like when you’re seein’ things right, rabbit.”_

_Keeping an eye on the dirty man, Norman drove them out of the back alley and into the road. He cut some corners, taking the fastest route to the destination._

_He opened the door to Sammy’s house and locked it behind them. The composer struggled to take off his shoes, which proved to be a futile attempt, as ink had seeped into them and was stuck on his socks and feet._

_Determined not to see his partner fretting, Norman picked him up from the floor and walked him to the biggest bathroom in the house. Gently, he lowered him on a big towel that he slid over the toilet seat not to stain everything._

_“Norman, I’ve ruined your clothes,” Sammy said with remorse, pointing to the splotches on the other’s shirt and pants._

_“I think I’ve got some clothes left around here, don’t mind me,_ _” Norman shrugged him off. He unbuttoned his smeared shirt and put it on the floor, as a makeshift hamper for Sammy’s blemished things. He didn’t want to ruin more towels than he already had. “You ain’t gonna be able to get all that grime off without help, so I’m gonna get soiled anyway.” He kneeled in front of the daubed man, starting with removing his shoes and socks with a gruff chuckle._

_“My misery gets you laughing,” Sammy grumbled. “How droll.”_

_Norman shook his head. “Nah, I don’t fancy you dipped in pitch, duck. I was just laughin’ ‘cause I remembered you sayin’ somethin’ about gettin’ undressed in the mornin’. How scandalous, Mister Lawrence, gettin’ naked right in the middle of the day.”_

_Sammy snorted and discarded his shirt. “Very scandalous. What, big boy, will you rub me up, too?”_

_“You mean your back? Certainly,” Norman replied, peeling the trousers off Sammy’s legs and discarding them over the shirt to throw them all away later. He saw that his calves and thighs were also painted with black. “Good Lord, what’s this thing? It went right though the fabric.”_

_“Ink,” Sammy replied, feeling bile gathering into his throat._

_Oh, yes, he had swallowed some. A bit more than just some._

_He put a hand over his mouth, suddenly nauseous. He gagged and had to inhale sharply, hardly preventing his raging insides from spilling. Swiftly, he was rotated so his knees were on the towel that had fallen on the tiles and his head was over the toilet. Norman held his head up with a hand and pressed his belly with the other palm, forcing him to heave._

_Painfully, the composer retched his bowels out, throwing up black liquid. Norman held him tightly, massaging his back and clutching his shoulder so that he didn’t bang his head on the porcelain seat when he bent in suffering. The gargling sounds went on and on, and he felt something shatter in him, seeing his radiant loved one in such grief. But it was necessary._

_The regurgitation eventually stopped. With a raw throat and bloodshot eyes, Sammy looked back at Norman, resembling a kicked puppy._

_“Shh, it’s all fine, Sammy, don’t you worry. Lemme get you some water, okay? Put your hands here. That’s it, good.” He helped him drink from the glass near the mirror. “Better, ain’t it? Got it all out?”_

_Sammy nodded, sipping some more water. He didn’t think he had anything else to throw up, besides his entire digestive tract._

_“Good,” Norman made encouragingly. He looked at the black mess that was smeared over the blue porcelain. He would have commented on how clear it was that Sammy had forgotten to eat that morning, but the poor man looked so pitiful that he didn’t need another push. He let it slide, along with Sammy’s undershirt, cravat and briefs._

_He helped him into the bathtub and let warm water fall over his body. The conductor was still coated in ink, even where his clothes had previously been. What sort of ink was that, penetrating through layers of fabric and getting into the skin like that?_

_Once again, Norman was having a very bad feeling that something strange was happening at the studio._

_As he had promised, he began rubbing Sammy’s back with a sponge, to take some of that muck off. Dark suds rolled down his spine, contrasting with the pale skin mottled with fresh bruises that was shying away from being revealed. Leaving the soap settle over the foul substance, he went on to wash the matted hair that was glued to the scalp._

_Sammy tried to scratch the ink off his legs with the fingernails, wanting to get rid of it. The thing wasn’t going away, stubbornly snuggled over his body, like it wanted to remain there, forever._

_“Samuel, stop that,” Norman gently instructed, prying his hands away from his shins. “You’re gonna hurt yourself. Lemme do it, okay? Just calm down.”_

_The composer swallowed, throat burning. He nodded, keeping silent._

_“That’s a boy. Now, tell me what happened.”_

_Sammy shook his head, sighing. “I thought I was going to suffocate for a moment. I was so sure I was going to die, Norman.”_

_The other man stroked his cheek. “Y’all good now, goldfinch. Go on.”_

_“I wanted to check some references, and you know there’s a pipe in the sheet music closet. It burst and all the ink sloshed right over my head and all over the place. All my finished sheets are gone, they’re all drenched in ink!”_

_“Ain’t you keepin’ copies?”_

_“Yes, but they’re not all completed, some are just sketched. Agh, it’s a mess, I’m going to waste so much time trying to remember what I wrote!”_

_Norman hummed along, glad to finally see some of Sammy’s hair colour emerging from underneath the black crust. “And after that?”_

_“I managed to get out of there and wobbled around, I think I’ll have bruises tomorrow after all the walls I’ve hit. I managed to get to the recording room and fell over that kid, what’s his name... Buddy or something.”_

_“Ah, Drew’s gofer?”_

_“Mhm, that kid. He gave me some rags so I could clear my eyes, but I was so furious! Good Heavens, I felt like I’d been stabbed in the back, seeing everything destroyed with Joey’s fucking pipes horseshit! Oh, and by the way, I got a shard out of my forehead. Lovely sensation.”_

_“I bet it stung.”_

_“Like a bitch.”_

_They both laughed, feeling tension rolling off._

_Norman carefully scrubbed and washed, getting the grime off with unwanted difficulty. Slowly, Sammy began to resurface from underneath the ink cocoon, smiling at feeling his skin breathing again._

_After aiding the composer, the projectionist had to take a shower as well, having gotten suds over him. It was a far faster affair. They both got dressed in fresh clothes, looking like normal human beings once again._

_Sammy’s right temple and forehead were still marred with a deep gash, suppurating lymph mixed with blood. Since he refused to be taken to a hospital, the mending procedure was intercepted and executed by Norman._

_He disinfected the wound with alcohol and did his best to stitch it up with a flamed needle, the same way he used to do when his sisters broke their skin while climbing trees. He managed a neat job, all the while being accompanied by the innovative curses flowing freely from the musician’s mouth._

_After the deed was done, they discarded all the filthy bundle of clothes into a trash bag. Sammy looked morosely at the bag, suspiring. Behind him, Norman peered over his defeated shoulder. “Got all sappy over some suspenders?” he asked, looping a finger on the replacement braces over his friend’s back._

_“I do value my suspenders, you know. They’re all very fine quality ones. Although... no. No, it’s not that,” Lawrence admitted, frowning. He turned his head to look behind him, at the taller man. “It’s the cravat that you’ve gotten me, do you remember it? I was wearing it.” He smiled melancholically. “I loved it.”_

_“I know, my little goldfinch.” Norman kissed his forehead, right next to the patch he used to cover up the stitches. “Don’t worry, I’ll find one just as green and silky as that one, I promise.”_

_Sammy showed a clear expression of appreciation on his face. He put a hand at the base of his neck, where another cravat was wrapped around and tucked under the shirt. Norman took Sammy’s fingers away from his throat and into his hand. He brought them to his lips and kissed his palm._

_They looked at each other for a moment._

_“Come on, now, let’s get you some coffee and somethin’ to eat, and then, back to work. Sounds about right?”_

_“It does.”_

_Norman nodded in approval and went to ignite the stove under the kettle that he had filled with water. Looking over his shoulder at the standing man, he asked warmly, “Are you alright, Sammy?”_

_Sammy smiled. “Of course.”_

_Of course that he wasn’t. But he didn’t know exactly why._

XXXXX

Sammy fell on his back and scrambled away from the ink wall, panting hard.

It was happening again, that horrible thing. It was going to consume him, that black ink, mess with his head and drive him insane. He was going to die, that time for real.

Out of the sudden, Sammy stopped struggling when he realised two things.

The first one was that he knew how he had ended up with ink instead of skin. Or, at least, he had some plausible explanation as to how, thanks to the very helpful memory that had just flashed through his mind.

The other – that the ink wall he had collided with was not a real wall, after all.

It was an inky creature, massive and swollen, bowing with a bowler hat clutched at the chest, saluting him.

A bowler hat.

“Jack?” Sammy asked bewildered.

The creature placed the hat back on his head and straightened. An arm erected from his side, and a thumb was raised.

“Huh,” the composer made. “Still wearing that horrid hat, I see.”

Shuddering, the ink blob grew another arm and pressed both of his hands on top of his shoulders, mimicking stretching some strings. He then pointed a finger at Sammy.

“Obviously, I still wear suspenders,” he retorted acidly. “Have you ever seen me without them? I think not.”

“Do you know him?” Henry asked, cowering behind the ink beast. He was clutching his axe, holding it close to his chest.

“And if I didn’t and he actually wanted to kill me?” Sammy inquired with his hands on his hips, despite being on the floor. He abruptly remembered the way he had talked to Jack in his memories, manner that wasn’t considered exactly polite. It was a wonder how people still levitated around him. Circumstances, perhaps? They certainly liked chewing on tough cookies.

The composer folded his arms in his lap, ignoring his unflattering thoughts. “Now that I think of it, after years of working together and not resorting to such measures, I safely reckon nothing like that would happen now. Right, Jack?”

The creature’s thumbs lifted up, though not as fast as the first time.

“Ah, so you would have killed me? Well, I don’t blame you. I have a feeling there were few who didn’t want to slice me up from time to time.”

One of the inky blob’s hands morphed into something that resembled a slice of pie, making Sammy chuckle. “Heh, like a pie, indeed. Hey, Henry!” he said, standing back on his feet. “Please meet my lyricist, Jack Fain.”

“Um, nice to meet you,” Henry waved ambiguously, phrasing it more like a question. The Searcher once again bowed, then adjusted his hat over his amorphous head.

“It feels more like a reunion than anything, doesn’t it? Like the entire Music Department is coming together,” Sammy mused. “We’ve got Norman and Allison with us, I don’t know if you remember them.”

Jack’s left hand transformed into a small projector and the right one into a microphone. “Ah, so you’ve got your memories, too,” the conductor remarked. “That makes things easier.”

“Wait! I’ve met you before!” Henry suddenly exclaimed. “How long have you been sentient?”

Sammy crooked his neck. “Hmm?”

“I sort of, um... collapsed a crate over him,” Henry mumbled, guiltily rubbing his head. “I’m really sorry for that, Jack.”

“Oh, I see,” Sammy murmured as he crossed his arms over the chest. “Don’t you have a way with people, Mister Stein,” he commented as he bent to pick up the pipe he had previously held from the floor. “Speaking of people, we should go back to our little company. I believe I have something spicy to tell you.”

“A revelation?”

“Yes and no. More like a nightmare, if you ask me.”

XXXXX

The ones who had remained at their makeshift camp were surprised to see the Searcher that Henry and Sammy brought with them - all apart from the Projectionist, who recognised him as the strange ink creature who had saluted him some time before, in the maze of corridors.

Now, as Sammy was recounting the way the pipe broke over his head and how it all played out, not going into details beyond what happened up to the point of meeting Jack on the hallway. The mismatched group stared at him with various expressions on their faces, most of astonishment or pity. Those who had a face, of course. Though the Projectionist and Jack didn’t seem surprised at all, silently watching the speaking composer.

“This sounds tragic, but I don’t see how it’s related to our situation,” Henry said.

“I must admit, I’m not sure yet if it’s relevant or not,” Sammy retorted, “but something tells me that it was this moment that started our problems. Or not the moment per se, but the ink that fell over me. Nevertheless, that’s not what I wanted to get at. Jack was very helpful in getting this memory back. I shall need your assistance again, my friend. You and Norman were the only ones who saw me that day. And some kid, but he’s not here with us. So, please answer me to this question – what did I look like?”

The Projectionist waved a hand in Jack’s direction, and the lyricist confirmed the vague description with both of his thumbs up. They both agreed that Sammy had looked as if he’d been dipped into an inkwell.

Most surprisingly, Boris pointed to the swollen Searcher, as well.

Henry was the first to react to that anomaly. “Buddy? You’re the boy Sammy told us about?”

Boris nodded with his ears dangling by his dotted jaws, but soon shrugged, as if he had lost his focus. He crossed his arms and cocked his head, his ear lifting back up.

“If you are the kid named Buddy... Oh!” Allison uttered, her lips turning into a perfect circle. “I think I remember meeting you in the elevator! At the studio! But... that’s all I can remember.”

“Well, it’s a good starting point, right?” Henry said, getting his hopes up. “We’re one step closer to piecing the puzzle back together.”

Sammy clicked his teeth. “Don’t you find it strange, however,” he began, “that we were all working together, at this particular studio?”

“Do you suggest-“

“I believe,” the composer intervened, “that everyone we have encountered so far was an employee here at some point.”

Allison gasped. “That means we killed our colleagues to defend ourselves? Oh my God!”

“I don’t think we actually killed them,” Henry said. “Everyone keeps on popping back up, even myself, so I wouldn’t call death permanent in here.” He looked down, in deep thought. With the corner of his eye, he caught some movement.

In the distance, some skeletal ink creatures were wobbling hastily. They were moving away from the village, looking behind them, as if they were baiting someone to come them.

Or running away.

Darkness seemed to walk between their toes, in long tongues sliding on the floor. One of the creatures crumbled to its knees and a black curtain enveloped its body, making it resemble a goopy lump.

“That’s-“

“-the Ink Demon,” Allison concluded. At her side, Tom was already gripping his axe, ready to fight.

“We need to go.”

They all looked at Henry, who was the only one who probably had any idea where they should be going. Tom and Allison’s memories weren’t good enough to be reliable, and Sammy had no idea where they were anyway – he would have normally been out of the picture by then.

The cartoonist soon darted to his feet and beckoned them to follow him, before it was too late.

They ran away from the devilish form, towards another assembly of corridors. Tom and Allison were ahead of them, Henry and Boris in the middle, and Sammy, the Projectionist and Jack were wobbling behind, by far the slowest of them.

And the most aware of the Demon’s closeness.

Sammy, in the permanent shadow of his projector-bearing friend, searched the walls for inky cracks. He would be able to hide with the rest of the group, if need arose, but Norman? He would never fit in one of those boxes where Henry always hid when he needed to avoid the Demon. His head was by far too big.

He wasn’t going to let the Ink Demon slaughter him, not again, not that time. If what Henry said was true, he had suffered a horrible death at the hands of that malicious spawn. Sammy didn’t wish for it to happen again.

Cold darkness slowly surrounded them, making it evident that they had company. They all looked out for the magical boxes, not glimpsing any. They left the village and escaped it through a passageway, but their tail wasn’t lost behind.

They had to pick up their pace, by then running without aim. Luckily, after dodging hallways, two large Miracle Stations became visible in the distance, downstairs from where they were, at the end of a large hall. They could hide in them.

However, time was running short. The black licks were already spreading menacingly around them.

“Jack, fall through the floor,” Sammy instructed his lyricist, who turned his head at him. “Do it, we’ll find you.” Jack nodded and grabbed the hem of his hat. One of his hands transformed into a small house and showed it to his boss. “We’ll get to safety. Go.” With a swoosh, Fain slipped through a small crease in the flooring.

The Projectionist searched the horizon, carefully surveying the change in the light. It was getting darker, but he clearly saw those Miracle Stations, right below them. All he had to do was to make sure they entered it.

Especially Sammy.

He knew that he would probably get caught by the creature if he didn’t move faster or changed routes. There wasn’t any ink spilt on the floor to boost his speed, rendering him too slow. He had noticed a promising trail that could have saved his skin earlier on, but that would have meant he separated from the group. And he refused to leave Sammy behind. The composer seemed too preoccupied with studying the walls, probably looking for a crack to slip through, yet there was none in sight.

Who knew if he would find an escape door in time. No, he had to make sure that Sammy entered one of the stations and then he would find out how fast his luck could run out. That was fine by him, his own safety didn’t matter much to him.

The air hung heavily around the chased people, all struggling to get to the head of the stairs faster. Scratching sounds echoed through the dim balcony floor, the only light coming from downstairs and from the Projectionist’s head, and none was much.

The Demon was right behind them.

They were hurrying as fast as they could, but they were incapable of rushing and truly gaining speed in those comical bodies.

The two wolves and the angel were already at the bottom of the stairs, with Henry in tow. Only the Projectionist was way behind, finding it much harder to walk, not to mention descending on dry land. Sammy was right in front of him, his muscles twitching with impatience.

“We must go another way!” Sammy ululated with fright. He grabbed his friend’s hand, who in turn emitted loud groans, as if he was telling him to run away and leave him. “No, you dumb sheep, I’m staying with you!”

The grinning Demon was already extending his hand at them, eager to get its talons on their inky fleshes.

“SAMMY!” Henry yelled from downstairs.

“NO! GO HIDE, YOU IDIOT!” Sammy screamed back, dragging the heavy Projectionist behind him. The big creature was doing his best to keep up with him. The floor wasn’t moist enough to ease his advance, though he tried his damndest. In his former human body, he could have outrun pretty much everyone he knew, but dipped in ink, his legs were kind of useless on any inkless terrain.

Out of necessity, they derailed their course through the other wing of the balcony, hoping to find some solace there.

“SAMMY, YOU NEED TO JUMP!” Allison wailed, motioning frantically from the entrance of one of the Miracle Stations. They were all staring in horror as the Ink Demon, with its claws slashing the air, was trying to get a hold of Sammy and the Projectionist.

“NO!” Sammy shouted again, pulling his darling after him. He was not going to lose him, he was the only reason why he wanted to stay in one piece. To make his beloved whole again, that was all he desired. To see his crooked smile again, the frown lines on his forehead and his black and blue eyes with thick, pointy eyebrows lifting up on his face whenever he said some odd thing.

He would either have that, or he would happily go back into the puddles with him, if anything happened.

But Sammy wasn’t going to give up without a fight.

Nor was the Demon, as it seemed.

They pushed themselves harder to get to the other end of the balcony, where maybe they would find a crack. Sammy had hope for it. He had to have hope in such a dreary situation.

“SAMMY!!! LEAVE HIM!” both Allison and Henry shouted, realising they were going to witness their companions getting shredded by the Demon and then dragged into the abyss. At least the composer stood a chance if he forswore his burdening tail. “COME DOWN!”

“NOT WITHOUT NORMAN!” he ejaculated furiously. “GET THE HELL TO COVER, YOU STUPID SHEEP!” he continued bellowing, his voice raw.

The people downstairs continued to shout at them, but Sammy ignored them, focusing all of his strength on pulling the Projectionist after himself. “Come on, angel, move your slow ass faster,” he encouraged, struggling to gain more speed.

The Projectionist grabbed Sammy’s other hand, the one that was still clutching the pipe. The composer allowed him to take it. The Projectionist began blindly waving it behind him, fortunately landing a blow right between the Demon’s teeth and breaking his improvised weapon.

The Ink Demon didn’t seem to enjoy it, given the hellish cry he produced.

“Keep hitting him, honey!” Sammy encouraged him. “I think I see a crack!”

“BEHIND YOU, NORMAN!” Henry screamed. The Projectionist turned brusquely, getting his clawed fingers right into the limping Demon’s face and getting ink on his wrist. The twisted arm that was about to grab his cables retracted, clutching the newly inflicted wound. It must have hurt, because those horrid sounds their pursuer produced were intensifying.

“Norman, I see one!” Sammy announced, holding his hand tighter. “We can do it, angel, come on!”

With a mighty shrill, the Projectionist strained their clasped hands and gathered his free one to the chest. It was so dark, not even his light pierced through the pitch clouds. He felt Sammy’s slim hand in his, fiercely biting into his flesh. It gave him strength beyond any imagination. The sting only fuelled his determination and he found more and more vitality to follow his lead, so they could both escape.

Cries of abandon and despair echoed around them, in the imperfect darkness, the air becoming so thick it could have been ink.

Until it actually turned into ink, cold and slick against their deformed bodies.

And nothingness became all that they knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da, that’s it for now! I know it has taken a bit of a darker turn, but hey – did you know there are more shades to black? It can be darker, but it can also be lighter. Just like life.  
> Without further ramblings, I hope you’ve enjoyed this chapter. Please, let me know what you think of it in the comments section below! Leave me some words, kudos if you’d like, I thank you kindly for all the support! Thanks for reading!  
> Until the next time, ta-ta!


	7. Chapter Seven - And Then, He Disappeared

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mornin’! Here we are with another chapter for this story, a somehow longer one than usual. Many things are happening in here and I hope you’ll enjoy the ride, let me know what you think about it! Thank you very much for reading and for all the wonderful feedback you’ve given me so far, it means a lot to me and I appreciate it!  
> As per the warnings, we have some harder things happening in here. Violence, plus some choice words as I like to call them, and a tiny bit of graphic mentions that aren’t really much, they go unseen if you squint. Another scene from the novel will be mentioned in passing, but just as before, it’s not needed to have read the book. And yes, I don’t know why I keep forgetting the disclaimer – I don’t own anything besides what’s obvious.  
> That being said and done, we come at last face to face with the past...

**Chapter Seven - And Then, He Disappeared**

Pitch black ink surrounded him. It was everywhere, over his eyes, inside his mouth and imbued in his lungs. For a moment, Sammy was certain that he was finally dead, damned to eternally rot in the prison of the whispering puddles. He had outrun his fate until it caught up with him and demanded its heavy toll. Was this all that destiny had reserved for him, was this his punishment for crimes he didn’t remember?

Though, when his sight cleared, he realised that he wasn’t trapped at all, he was merely idling inside the filling of a thick wall, snuggled within the ink that seeped between its sides and made up the concrete.

Well, wasn’t that fortunate.

He wiggled a bit, his heart clenching when, at first, he didn’t feel anyone behind him. Soon after, a hand tightened its hold onto his and calmed his nerves. Sammy squeezed it back and allowed himself to breathe, knowing that everything was alright.

Behind him, the reassuring light of the Projectionist was lighting up his path. They both had made it to the safety of the ink corridors where no one could enter.

He turned around inside the wall to face his beloved, who was patiently waiting for the inky conductor to resume his lead through the unknown territory. Holding hands, they kept advancing in the search of the other side of the panel, the Projectionist facing ahead and Sammy still walking backwards. Sammy took a few steps like that, gazing at his dear friend he had almost lost in the Demon’s chase.

Unexpectedly soon, they exited the wall through another crack situated in a completely different area of the studio. Sammy awkwardly stumbled on his own feet, not having had the time to fully turn around, and fell on his back, dragging his far heavier partner along with him.

The Projectionist tumbled over, accidentally pulled by the startled composer, and collapsed over his frailer companion. He tried to minimise the impact by putting his hands forward, but it did nothing to their situation, gravity dragging them down. At least they didn’t bash their heads together – that would have probably smashed the window over his light bulb and cracked Sammy’s skull. Not preferable outcomes, either of them.

Panting hard, one atop the other, they looked around for nearby threats. Nothing was in sight, so they allowed themselves a moment of rest.

“Norman, I swear,” Sammy broke the cacophony of heavy breaths with his currently trembling voice, “I don’t remember that much, but it’s the first time I can think of when I absolutely loathe you weight a ton. You’re a glorified walking log, you know that? How the hell can it be this hard to move you around when I can literally make out the shape of your bones?”

Holding himself up on an elbow, the Projectionist lifted his other hand and presented his large palm, trying to show that it was obvious why he weighted so much, despite being as thin as he was. Longer bones did amount to a hefty share of extra weight, along with the muscular mass that shouldn’t be ignored.

From underneath, Sammy grumbled, not liking he had received a rational explication to his complaint. The speaker in the Projectionist’s chest started vibrating, as if he was laughing. The noise it emitted somehow resembled the laughter in his former life, before all this, when he still had the ability to speak – sounding like a motorised chainsaw’s engine misfiring.

It brought a fond smile to the former prophet’s face. “My handsome angel,” he mirthfully gurgled and patted one of the Projectionist’s shapely thighs. He lifted his mask and placed a kiss on the projector’s lenses. He was grinning, showing his black teeth underneath shiny strips of ink. “I’m glad we both made it. And Lord, how did you even manage to hit the Demon? My honey is so goddamn strong,” he stated proudly as he rubbed the Projectionist’s glistening biceps. “But please, Norman, and I mean it - don’t ever try to remain behind me. We’re in this together and I am not leaving you behind for anything. Got it, you moron?”

The great beast gently bumped his projector’s corner into the inky man’s cheek, determining him to widen his smile. “Yes, I am a moron, as well. We’re a pair of morons, fools, dimwits, you name it. Love is blind like this, you know.” He brought a hand to the side of the projector and caressed it reverently. “What to do, what to do.”

They stood like that for a few instants more, enjoying their moment of peace, feeling their bodies aching and meshing together, dripping over each other in their embrace. It was almost like one of those lazy mornings when they woke up together, with a ray of sunlight playing over their bare skins, slowly lulling them out of their comfortable slumber.

Arduously, the Projectionist managed to kneel over his beloved. With effort, he placed each of his soles on the ground and lifted his heavy frame, precariously balancing the projector over his shoulders. Once he found his stability, he helped Sammy up with an extended hand.

Standing straight, the composer arranged the straps over his shoulders, making sure they didn’t fall off along with his slacks. He put his mask into position as he rolled his neck a bit. It popped oddly, probably from the tension he had experienced in the last while, but some strained tendons were infinitely more preferable to being shredded into pieces by a vengeful monster. They didn’t even compare.

“I hope the others are alright, as well,” he wished. “I guess it’s going to take them some time to get here. I hope they were smart enough to go some place else, because if they are still where we left them, I am not going back there. For all we know, the Demon might be waiting for us on the other side.”

The Projectionist agreed with him with a single nod.

“Hm...,” Sammy hummed. “Say, maybe we should try to find Jack. At least, I know he listened to me and descended into the floor’s inkwell. He should be fine. Anyway, we should get a move on regardless, I don’t fancy standing in the middle of nowhere.” Sammy roamed his eyes around, trying to make out exactly what he was seeing.

Nondescript hallway with some doors on each side. Nothing too exciting.

That was good. He had gotten enough excitement lately to last him for more than a lifetime.

“Well, then, let’s explore, what do you say? And get your hands ready, you’ve broken my pipe and before I find anything that could pass up as a weapon, you’re in charge of hitting things in the head.”

Adjusting his light, the Projectionist shrugged, prepared to resume his trailing steps. He glanced once more at the smaller man, noticing his mask had gained a few new stains in their struggle to escape the Demon. He couldn’t mention the blotches to the composer and even if he had had a voice, he wasn’t sure he could have wiped them anyway. Instead, he began walking ahead.

XXXXX

_“Sammy, what’s on your face?” Norman asked, bending to get a levelled look of the composer’s face, who was sitting on the piano bench._

_The musician flinched at the feeling of someone else’s touch._

_Worried, Norman cupped his chin and made him turn his head at him. “Are you bitin’ your pens, now? You’ve got ink on the corner of the mouth,” he said and took a handkerchief from his pocket, attempting to rub the smudge off._

_Lawrence immediately retracted his head. “Norman, I don’t believe this is necessary. We are in a working environment-“_

_“A-yuh, an’ it’s very necessary! What’s the matter with you, Sammy? Don’t get that stuff into your mouth, you’re gonna be sick. It’s toxic, stop bein’ such a brat about it! You really should’ave gone see a doctor after swallowin’ so much of that thing.”_

_“Nonsense, I’m perfectly fine,” Sammy made, physically pushing the man away with the back of his hand._

_“Yeah? If you’re so fine, why’s your skin practically translucent and you’re losin’ weight as if you ain't eatin’? Are you even eatin’ anythin’, besides souls?”_

_Sammy glared, his eyes stormy. “Yes, Norman, I am eating something besides souls. Stop patronising me.”_

_“I ain’t patronisin’ you, Sammy, but you’re lookin’ like a walkin’ and talkin’ corpse!”_

_“I am most certainly not! I look fine. I am fine.”_

_Norman sketched a tight grimace. “Okay. Do what you wannna do, Lawrence, it’s your body. If you wanna die from starvation or some intoxication, fine, perfect. But please, listen to me, for my sake, if not for yours. You ain’t lookin’ fine at all. I know it, hell, I can even feel it. You’re burnin’ all up an’ I reckon your skin aches, ain’t it? That’s why you flinch.”_

_“No, it’s only very hot in here and everything feels like fly-catching paper. I am fine, Norman, I can assure you,” Sammy insisted, despite feeling a little nauseous. “Look, if I am unwell, I’ll tell you, okay? You’ll be the first one to know.”_

_‘Sure, ‘cause I already know,’ Norman thought sourly, looking at the dull colour in Sammy’s irises and the way they gleamed with fever. He knew they weren’t going to get anywhere with that argument, so all he had left to do was to stick around and pick Sammy up when he eventually crumbled. By the looks of it, he wouldn’t have too much to wait, if the composer kept on thinning and wasting away at the same rate._

_He only hoped he could save him if it happened, that Sammy would let him take care of him. The musician never really paid enough heed to what went unseen and neglected any signs of distress that didn’t suit his more urgent plans. The artist’s heart could become shallow in front of their art, though something told the projectionist the composer’s condition had nothing to do with his music, but with something else. What, he could only guess._

_“Really, Norman, I am fine,” Lawrence insisted, noticing the lack of reaction from the stern man. “I’m minding my work, as you can see. It’s just very hot in here, that’s all.” And he was dizzy as hell._

_“I honestly wanna believe you, dove, but I don’t,” Norman replied warily. “I’m not persistin’ with this, don’t worry. If you need me, I’m around, okay?”_

_“Thank you,” Sammy said in a linear manner, sounding composed. He turned at the piano to look at the keys, as if he was seeing something that wasn’t visible to anyone else. He began fumbling with some sheets, probably to consult them, and stared blankly ahead._

_Polk sighed, complying. He gave his partner another once over. Not minding his surroundings as he watched the conductor shifting on his seat, his shoe caught into something that clanked and rolled under the piano bench._

_Quick inspection revealed an empty inkwell, the vial almost perfectly cleaned._

_He let out a breath, thankful that it wasn’t some alcohol bottle or who knew what else, concerned that the musician had picked up another damaging habit besides the many he already had._

_But, just as he was stepping out of the room, Norman realised something he had overlooked._

_He hadn’t seen a pen anywhere._

_He turned to look again at Sammy, who was watching him with a little smile, his face now clean._

XXXXX

The two wandering ink creatures stopped in front of a big sign nailed over an archway. Right above it, the grinning face of Bendy was sketched on the wall, paint chipped from aging. “Administration,” Sammy read the script. “How very fascinating. No wonder it all feels so bleak,” he commented, trying to brush off the uneasiness of his newest vision with some side snarl.

His companion was studying the walls leading to the archway, filled with posters from various cartoons, probably some promotional materials. He gave little indication that he was listening to the composer’s rants, but Sammy was certain that he was. He was far too attentive to everything, despite feigning disinterest most of the time.

It might sound slightly off, but the musician had a hunch that the Projectionist was experiencing the same memories at the same time as him. It had happened before, it would only make sense to happen again. That could explain why they were inevitably reuniting at some point in every scene, every single time.

He was always seeing things from his perspective, obviously, but he wondered if Norman saw from his. That would be the most logical occurrence, he didn’t think that anyone could see one’s life through someone else’s eyes. But if that was so, and the Projectionist and he were indeed remembering the same events, then there must have been other important parts happening while they weren’t together. Sammy was really curious about them.

However, above all, he was frightened. Not due to the constant dangers inside the studio, not because he was piecing fragments of memories he shared with another. No. It was the precise fact that he had so many memories connected to this person, to Norman, now the wobbling Projectionist, appearing at random points of their journey through the halls. Sometimes related to the place he currently was, oftentimes not.

And they were getting less and less merry.

They have started as recollections of a friendship, then something more, but after he had remembered that incident with the pipe... what had he been up to, after that? Why had there been ink at the corner of his mouth? Sammy dreaded learning the answer.

He had no way to find if the Projectionist was receiving any vision that didn’t feature both of them meeting up at some point. They had no means of communication outside Sammy’s incessant talking, which was one-sided at best. But if he considered that theory, it meant that if his past self had kept whatever he had been doing to himself, then Norman had never known anything about it. He would probably not receive any explanation whatsoever.

‘What was I doing,’ the composer wondered. ‘What was I hiding... Think, Sammy, think.’

He considered the facts – the empty inkwell on the floor, the stain on his face and the way he had flinched when he had been touched. He had never enjoyed having people touching him when he didn’t want it, but nothing indicated him that he had ever been averse to Polk’s closeness in any way.

Maybe he hadn’t told a lie and he had been merely hot. Having someone’s heat over already heated skin was anything but pleasant. But, then again, what was with that ink smudge?

‘Oh, Lord,’ he mentally gasped, realising what he hadn’t seen in the memory. ‘Could it be that I was purposefully drinking the ink?’

It was an absurd notion, but he could not help shuddering at how fast that assumption came to be. He swallowed thickly and tasted the putrid taste of ink inside his throat.

Now that he thought about it, maybe his guess was not that preposterous after all.

He tried to brush off his worries, concentrating on the archway. “I find a clerk’s duty quite dull,” he continued, keeping his deep voice in check, just as low and far away as usual. He was too uneasy to sound relaxed, so he made a conscious effort to mimic normality. “Such lack of imagination. What do you say about heading inside, Norman? Let’s see if we can find something useful, shall we?”

Just as expected, the Projectionist took another glance at a poster of Boris holding a clarinet, then followed Sammy to wherever he was headed. The former prophet was visibly agitated and had no weapon at the moment, so he reasoned he should probably stick close to him, in case anything unexpected disrupted their tranquillity.

Just as he was finishing that thought, a Butcher Gang member came rushing upon them with a wrench in its twisted little hand. Sammy jumped at the peculiar sound it produced, as if the Piper was on springs. He took a step back, wanting to kick the vile creature and keep it away from him.

The Projectionist let out one of his screams, despite being a bored and not exactly intimidating one. It had the desired effect, at least. The Piper diverted its aggression to him instead of the musician and the Projectionist swatted the abomination with the back of his hand, crushing it against the wall.

“Don’t you have quite a thing for walls,” Sammy noted, brushing some inexistent dust off his shoulder.

If he’d had a face, The Projectionist would have glowered at him. Grunting with purpose, he pointed a finger at the corridor, then resumed walking.

“Yes, yes, let’s get going. Thank you for saving me again, Norman,” Sammy said with a smile in his voice, quickly getting back at his protector’s side.

He had no need to worry over any non-existing revelations, everything was just fine and dandy. Paranoia was a tight corset and neither of them had time for tying its laces. The less he thought about the memory that bothered him, the better for his spirit.

XXXXX

They kept looking through the maze of corridors that comprised the Administration. The offices were frozen in time, left abandoned and devoid of any life, besides some adventurous Butcher Gang clones, promptly presented to their departed relatives by the brutal hand of the Projectionist.

Sammy rummaged around, opening closets and desk locks, searching for the smallest hint that could shed some light over their predicament.

Nothing so far.

“That’s just odd. Why is there nothing related to schedules, balances, anything? Just random things, scattered around. Oh, wait.” He poked his head under a desk. “Oh! I think I see something. Norman, can you point your light under this for a moment? I can’t see what, but there’s definitely something here.”

Light bathed him from behind.

“Perfect, dear, thank you,” Sammy said and slid his hand under a footrest. “A-ha! Shut the door behind you and come here for a moment.”

The door closed and the Projectionist appeared at his side. “Look at this,” Sammy pointed to a list of names written in a very small and neat script. He wasn’t sure if his companion could actually see what was scribbled there, so he began reading it out loud. “It’s an appointment schedule. Okay, so, we have some names here, let’s see... Bertrum Piedmont. Wasn’t that the one with the whacky races? You know, the guy shouting at us in the amusement park? It must be him. Uh, neurotic chap. Hm, here it’s me,” he directed a finger to his name. “Seems I had something to discuss that day... Oh, here’s Mr Drew at lunch, I hope he choked on his food,” he remarked drily, thinking about how keen he’d been to strangle his boss in his memories.

“Then it’s Thomas Connor from GENT,” he continued. “That must be our Tom. Next, some other people I don’t know...” He snorted, reading the next appointment entry. “That Puppet Guy? That’s just sad, they could at least have bothered to ask his name.” He squinted his eyes. “Wait. It says Susie Campbell here, at the end of the list. When was this written, let’s see...”

He turned the paper over on its back. There were some filing identification numbers, scratched on the side. “Nineteen-forty-six,” Sammy relayed. He scratched his neck, thinking about the unexplainable knowledge he was sometimes accessing. He looked up at the other one, to tell him about what he knew. “Do tell me if I’m mistaken, honey, but wasn’t Susie sacked long before this Thomas fellow came around? Or is sacking no longer a synonym to being fired nowadays.”

The Projectionist crossed his arms, making a nodding motion with his machine head.

“Yes, that’s what I was thinking as well... What was she doing here, if she was no longer working for the studio? Oh, wait, I think I saw something in that drawer, it looks opened.” He pulled another tray, from where the rumpled corner of a sheet was jutting out. “It’s a letter from some guy called Grant Cohen, telling Mister Drew they are short of, who-wee!” Sammy whistled expressively. “Over forty-eight thousand dollars! That’s a big ass house you can buy with that kind of money, what on Earth were they spending that much on? It’s almost fifty grand, that’s pretty much everyone’s salaries.” He cocked his head. “Interesting. If it’s addressed to our Joey, his office must be close. I was never good at finding my way up there, the next door looks like the other.”

The Projectionist patted his arm. Sammy quizzically marvelled at him. “Think you can get us there without wandering around?” He shook his head, erasing the question from the discussion. “What am I even asking. Lead the way, Norman, let’s see what Joey is hiding from us.”

XXXXX

They soon found a door with a large window encased in it. Above it, a banner wrote ‘OFFICE OF JOEY DREW’.

It was obviously locked, but Sammy kicked the door out of the hinge. The office was in a state of disorder, with papers left around and many books placed over other stacks. The walls were filled with pictures and drawings, rumpled documents, framed diplomas, some posters, all nailed into the wood.

“And I thought I liked piling up junk,” Sammy made, assessing how little space to move around they had in the room. “This is too much even for me.” He kneeled to look under the drawers for fallen documents, whereas the Projectionist moved things around, offering a helping hand in the way that he could.

Intrigued, he pressed on a recording device he discovered under some newspapers.

The voice of none other than Joey Drew erupted, startling Sammy, who banged his head into an opened drawer. “Ooof,” he puffed. Rubbing his head, the man padded to his friend and punched him in the shoulder, but didn’t say a word. He was listening to the recording, as well.

It was some monologue addressed to Susie. She was being told just how much Alice, her character, meant to Joey. Nothing out of the ordinary, considering that the man had dedicated his life to those cartoons, but both men’s attention was pinched when Joey mentioned the words ‘ _small project_ ’.

“A little ceremony,” Sammy echoed Joey’s words. “Doesn’t sound suspicious at all.”

“ _I want you to bring Alice to life once more_ ,” the recorded voice stated with charisma, as if Joey was offering the gift of gods to mortals. “ _What do you say_?” The recording came to a halt, the tape rustling blankly before clicking shut and the play button rising back up.

“I say that Joey was either playing some bullshit on that poor woman, or he was meddling with some very dubious stuff,” Sammy concluded, replying to the recording’s final question. “Probably both,” he trailed on, running his fingers over a book with mystical symbols on its cover. He opened it and saw the description of a blood ritual, and quickly closed it back. “Okay, that’s not for me,” he mumbled and pushed the book away.

Some papers poked his arm. “What’s with these, Norman? Oh!” he exclaimed, picking up the newspaper that the Projectionist offered him. “Joey Drew Studios under investigation,” he read the title. “Well, no wonder, by the sounds of that letter. Oh, there’s me being quoted. Tight ship, yada, yada, survival of the fittest- Oh, I like this one, I said to the reporter that we don’t need a bunch of useless sheep who can’t finish their work on time. I agree, of course, it’s a tough business.” He tapped his foot on the floor, continuing reading the article. “Hm, look at the ending, it says there were staffing issues.”

The door to the chockfull office opened up abruptly, determining both of them to turn around sharply, ready to face what has intruded in their space.

It was an axe, tightly held by the hands of a weary Henry. “Sammy, Norman! You’re alive!”

Sammy looked down at himself, then at his constant travelling mate. “Seems that we are,” he replied noncommittally.

“Thank Goodness, we were afraid you were done for! We thought something happened to you two, we’ve heard someone screaming, but we soon lost sight of you. There wasn’t anything left of you but a huge splash of ink and a broken pipe, was either of you injured?”

The composer shook his head. “No, not us. In fact, Norman managed some fine blows right into Bendy’s shiny teeth. And if by screaming you meant you’ve heard someone cursing, then that was me. You’ve no idea how hard it is to drag someone after you on unfit terrain, it’s like carrying a body bag. Not that I know how that is, but still,” he mumbled, not pleased with the comparison.

“Norman hit the Ink Demon?” Allison asked from behind Henry, very surprised. “Are you two alright? We were so worried for you! It was horrible to watch you boys being chased by that monster!”

“Imagine being the one being chased,” Sammy retorted sarcastically. “But yes, we’re both unharmed, thank you. We found a crack in one of the walls just in time and travelled here.”

“Through the wall?”

Sammy nodded. “Yes, I can get through the walls, but that’s not important right now. So, are our doggies good? I see you’re unharmed,” he motioned at Henry and Allison with his head. The woman smiled kindly and returned to the corridor, probably to talk to the others. “Found Jack anywhere?”

The cartoonist nodded. “We’re all safe, everyone’s in the hallway. And it was Jack who found us, he scared the life out of us when he appeared out of nowhere and then, he just waved at us,” Henry explained with only half the mouth.

“Ah, sounds like Jack. Well, jolly reunion, but we’ve found something. More things.”

“So did we.”

“Mmm, saucy,” the composer hummed, putting a hand on his hip. “Who goes first?”

Stein scratched his chin pensively. “Well, we should first get out of this office and then talk, there’s not enough space for all of us in this place.”

Sammy artistically put a palm over his chest and suggestively lifted the hip he had his other hand on. He chuckled breathily. “Why, Henry, afraid to be cooped up with two guys in a small space?” He straightened, having to smile at how scandalised the cartoonist looked due to his poor jest. “Don’t answer – let’s go somewhere more airy, I agree.”

The seven companions made their way to a break room that could contain them all. As they took their stroll through the corridors up to that chamber, they noticed the decaying ink bodies that the Projectionist had left in his wake. He had effectively swept the floor with the Butcher Gang members that he had encountered with Sammy in tow.

The most expressive out of them were the two wolves. On one side, there was Tom, who was nodding appraisingly at the ink splashed all over the place, very appreciative of the brutal display. However, on the other side was Boris, who constantly lifted his hands to cover up his eyes and was shaking from every joint. Jack slid on the floor and cautiously balanced his bowler hat on top of his head, whereas Allison leisurely walked between Henry and her constant shadow, the fearless wolf with the mechanical arm, and said nothing about the corpses.

Soon after passing through the entirety of the massacre, they entered a reception lobby that led to a break room and a set of offices. They entered the larger chamber and allowed their feet to rest. They closed the door behind them, practically barricading themselves. Tom crouched next to the keyhole, keeping an eye on the outer corridor.

Henry cleared his throat to capture the audience’s attention. “We’ve found a strange recording, next to a GENT label sign. Actually, there were two recordings. One from a man whose voice Allison recognised as Tom’s, and one from Joey.”

“What a lucky coincidence,” Sammy quipped, thinking about the audio log in Drew’s office. He hopped onto a table and elegantly crossed his legs. “What did they say?”

“The one from Tom said something about a machine that made life-size figures after running film through it. I think they were trying to create some mold after the cartoon characters. Only that Tom mentioned that Joey was demanding things resembling magic more than anything, so I’m not sure what they wanted with the machine. Though it kind of sounds like Joey, now that I think of it,” Henry admitted, rubbing the back of his head. “He’d always had the wildest ideas.”

“What else?” Sammy demanded impatiently.

“Tom also said that they’d attempted to create Bendy and that they’d failed. That there was something unworldly about what they’d accomplished.”

“Oh, so the machine did work?”

“They created something, but not what they expected,” Henry retorted. “Joey, in his recording, spoke about an abomination, so I suppose he meant the same foiled experiment. He kept talking about living attractions, that they kept on trying to create them and they continued to fail because, um, how to put it...”

Allison lifted her arms in exasperation. “Just as it is, Henry! Joey said that Tom had sent him a memo that they had failed their experiments because the things they were creating had no souls. Joey said that wasn't a problem, he would get them a soul because he owned thousands of them! What’s that even supposed to mean? What has he done? What has Tom done?” she asked, slightly hysterical, looking at the wolf that momentarily turned his head from the keyhole with fallen ears.

“Well, Allison,” Sammy intervened in a tense voice. ”Might not help, but I believe it’s more about what Joey has done, not Tom. We too have found some interesting voice recording of Joey convincing Susie to become Alice Angel. Not only that, but also notices from Finance about some major debts and a newspaper article writing about angry personnel talking to the police. Pardon me for saying this, Henry, but your pal admitted to being up to some strange ceremonials. He was neck-deep in the proverbial shit, if you ask me, you don’t want to see the balances we uncovered. I think he toyed a bit with the occults, too, I don’t know what anyone does with pentagrams and incantations in their office.”

Henry closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “I suppose Joey was talking about the Ink Demon and the Angel. But... Jesus, I can’t believe it. Allison’s right, what has he done? What happened to everyone? Do you think he, what - do you think he killed anyone?”

“Can’t say for sure,” Sammy pondered. “But facts are clear. The Demon is off his bonkers, I believe we can all agree on that. Also, you said that Tom concluded that he’s this way because he has no soul. Joey’s tone led me to believe that Susie was actually willing to become Alice and all she needed was the proposition. Therefore, we can only assume that she donated her soul to Joey to turn her into Alice Angel, and safely say it was consensual. And I think that’s it. Did I miss anything?”

The cartoonist crossed his arms, jaw tight. “No, that pretty much sums it up,” he agreed, still not grasping that his old friend could have cooked up such a demented plan. Why had he even envisioned it, what had pushed him into executing something like that? The debts, the press? He should have never left Joey, he mentally kicked himself. Nothing of that would have happened if he had been at his side. Henry would have never allowed his old friend to destroy someone’s life.

But hadn’t Drew nearly destroyed his? He had left the studio because he was barely seeing his home, his wife, the inside of his eyelids at night.

No, Joey was more than capable to do anything to achieve his dreams, and the only one who had ever turned his back on him had been Henry. So, no, he shouldn’t be surprised of what he was hearing. But it still hurt.

Perfectly poised on top of the table, Sammy cocked his head to the side. He allowed the animator a few moments of recollection before he spoke. “So it seems we have a hunch about how Susie became that monstrosity we’ve encountered. But, the question that begs to be asked is another – how did the rest of us end up here? Because, as much as I hate to say, it looks like we’re some sort of cartoons as well. All of us, not just Buddy and Tom, who are practically versions of Boris the Wolf.”

He lifted his hands before anyone had the chance to talk. “I think it’s all orchestrated, let me explain how. Henry, you are the artist who draws the cartoons, practically the creator of the source material. Joey, if he is indeed the one who started this mess, it’s the director of the story. Allison, you’re supposed to be an Alice Angel clone. So was Susie. We have the Butcher Gang, we have plenty of Borises and we have some sort of Bendy. We practically have all the main characters, from what I’ve seen from the posters. Next, the technical staff. Norman is a walking projector, easy to be moved around where he’s needed to project any cartoons. Jack can very well be the embodiment of a very convenient prop, he’s shifting his shape however he wants. And myself, I don’t know what I’m supposed to be, but I haven’t signed up for this nonsense. That much I am certain of.”

“How can we be cartoons, Sammy,” Allison muttered bewildered. “That’s just crazy.”

Lawrence shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know, dear. Maybe because I have four fingers at a hand and I’m talking to an angel with horns, wolves in all-overs, a blob with a hat and a projector on legs. It just occurred to me that it might not be normal.” He shook his head. “We are living inside a cartoon, I’m telling you, Allison, and if you need any proof, just look around yourself. You have eyes for that. I don’t have any, but I still see.”

“We need to get to the Film Vault, it’s very close to this place,” Henry said suddenly with a great deal of determination, abruptly preventing Sammy from saying anything ruder than the insinuations he had already made. Allison looked downright insulted by the composer, who didn’t look like he cared about what she thought. He stood by his words with conviction.

But they left the quarrel behind very quickly after hearing Stein’s instruction. “Why?” both voice actress and music director demanded at unison.

“I know we have to. It’s the only way.”

Under the mask, Sammy frowned. It was clear that Henry was conflicted by his old friend’s actions, wondering if he had done anything too drastic or even criminal. Despite that, they still had to trust the pull that the cartoonist was feeling.

After all, it was the farthest that Sammy has ever gotten in the looping story of the studio, so he couldn’t provide much insight besides some suppositions. And, quite honestly, he was dying to find out what followed.

Hopefully, not literally.

XXXXX

What followed wasn’t actually that exciting. Or at least, not for the moment. The group made their cranky way to the Film Vault and down to a large corridor, leading to a huge safe door, left wide opened.

“Seems like someone has forgotten the welcoming mat,” Sammy commented idly.

“The door is always opened,” Henry said. “Every time that I can remember, it’s open.”

They stepped inside the vault and entered into another chamber. They walked over the ink that was spilt over the floor and through a round opening, leading to yet another room.

Many boxes were scattered around, but Henry was the first to notice the only one that wasn’t sealed. He bent over it and inspected it. No tape fastened the loose flaps and he could glimpse something shiny and dark hidden beneath the cardboard top. Not without an ounce of dread, he spread the flaps, revealing some empty reel cases and a big splotch of ink.

“Looks like whatever was here was taken long ago,” Allison said, looking inside the box.

“There should have been a tape in here,” Henry told them. “It’s the ending roll, we’ll have to find it. It will end this nightmare, I’ve played it before. I remember it clearly.” Taking the looking glass that the woman has given him, the cartoonist gazed through it. “The Ink Demon has taken it,” he read out loud.

“How convenient,” Sammy made in a deadpan manner. “My Lord has left the door opened for us.”

Everyone turned their heads at him.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, I am not back to kissing his feet. I was merely joking.”

“That’s a morbid way to joke, Sammy,” Allison scolded him.

Henry shook his head. “Yes, but he might actually be right. The Ink Demon has the thing that we need, so I’m going in after him.”

“You want to go into his lair? Are you crazy?” the woman implied.

“Since we’re at it, why not?” Sammy asked, sounding very rational. “We have no other way to go, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Yes, Sammy’s right,” Henry backed him up. “That’s where the trail seems to lead.”

“Uh,” she exhaled defeated. “It’s probably through that door.” She pointed towards a locked door. “But it won’t be easy to be opened. I need-“

Before Allison managed to say what she needed to unlock it, Tom busted the door with a single punch.

“Oh, yeah, that works too,” she said as an after thought.

They all stared at each other, at a stale mate. No one dared to move a muscle, all seemingly weighting their options.

There was no going back for them and none knew why it was like that. No one, besides Henry. Right in that moment, he was seeing what was about to happen, and he didn’t like it one bit. All their efforts were going to be rendered useless, the world would reset and they would go back to mindless puppets. It was absolutely nerve wrecking and he didn’t have the slightest idea what to do next. Should he even tell them about what he knew?

He looked at Sammy and his ferocious friend protectively standing by his side. He watched Allison and Tom reassuring each other through speechless glances. He saw Jack bobbing up and down next to Buddy Boris and occasionally patting his shoulder, trying to lift up his morale. 

No, he couldn’t give them the truth, not when they had managed to progress so much. Who knew, maybe they would remember it all the next time they saw each other and things would get better in another loop. Or perhaps in that one, there were already so many variations from normal that he had faith they had a chance to solve the mystery puzzle once and for all.

Or they could lose it all.

The stillness was aborted with the slightest rustle cutting through the tension that surrounded them, just like a knife sliding through melting butter. The first to venture inside the deserted hallway was surprisingly not Tom, who was the nearest to the door, but the Projectionist, who walked inside like he owned the place.

Henry cautiously called after him. “Norman, wait-“

The creature turned around with a lifted hand. He dipped his finger into some smeared ink nearby and wrote with one of his crooked fingers on a dry wall. Not for the first time, the Projectionist wished he could talk so he could explain what he wanted to do, especially to Sammy, who he believed was going to play a much bigger role in getting out of that place than they had anticipated. He could sense the reluctance in Henry’s demeanour, like he was purposefully not telling them something, and he had a vague idea what it was. It most likely had to do with the machine Connor had mentioned in his recording. He had a faint recollection of seeing some odd happenings in his former life in the same place they were currently in.

Whatever it actually proved to be, all he wanted was to be by his beloved’s side, to make sure he was safe. He was the only one he truly trusted with his every fibre and for whom he would do practically anything, no matter how drastic.

Finishing up with the words on the wall, the Projectionist could only hope the composer understood the message behind what he tried to say. ‘WAIT FOR ME’, he scribbled awkwardly in shaky capital letters, and then pointed to another closed door at the end of the corridor, positioned nearby a working projector.

The same film that was looping inside the flooded maze on level fourteen was being projected on the wall next to that particular door. The cartoon was called ‘Tombstone Picnic’, the name being stated at its beginning, and it finished just as brusquely as in all the other departments it was being rolled.

“You want to go there? Do you think it’s safe?” Allison worriedly inquired. She genuinely feared for the large ink creature’s wellbeing, remembering the horrible experience they had gone through with the Demon chasing after them.

“It’s his lair. Norman’s, I mean,” Sammy said hauntingly. “He knows this place better than any of us. All the reels are in here, aren’t they?”

The Projectionist nodded, glimpsing hope in his partner’s words. He immediately pointed to the door, then to himself, and Sammy nodded slowly.

Allison’s anxiety carved deep lines into her forehead. “Are you sure you want to go inside by yourself? At least someone should accompany you, in case of anything.”

With certainty, the Projectionist waved his hands in dismissal. He patted the speaker inside his chest, reiterating he wanted to go in by himself. Fluidly, he caught Sammy’s forearm and motioned towards the cartoon that was being projected on the wall.

It all clicked inside the musician’s mind. He didn’t exactly understand how it worked, but he had an idea about what he was being suggested to do. He was feeling exactly the same way as he did when he was about to remember something, and strangely, he knew what he needed to do even before seeing the memory. He needed to find something.

He wondered about what he was about to see. His fingertips were tingling, impatient to lose their senses for a few blissful moments. “Norman, do you think my banjo is still in here? The one I had left behind?” he asked with hesitation. That was what Sammy reflected he had to search for, according to his impulse.

His dear friend nodded, the heavy projector he carried between his shoulders tilting with certainty. “Then I’ll find it,” Sammy promised. “Stay safe and meet us back here. Give us a shout if there’s any problem, okay?”

After staring a second longer at the masked man, the Projectionist opened the door and closed it behind him with a subtle thud.

Henry was paralysed with confusion. “Sammy, what has he-“

“Henry,” Sammy interrupted him. “You said it yourself, that things are happening in a loop. Far as I know, every loop begins where it ends. If we continue following the same steps you had, we will return to the way things were, doing what the never-ending instinct was making us do. Don’t you see it? I will tie you to a pole, Buddy will be dismembered by Susie and Allison and Tom will put you into a jail, exactly like you have said. Again and again and again. And all that we have achieved so far, all the efforts we’ve put into recollecting who we are will be for naught. ”

Henry stared blankly, unnerved by the composer’s fast wits. So much for information omission.

“But maybe because we’re all together now, it won’t happen that way!” Allison gesticulated. “We will find the ending roll together and play it, and maybe this madness will stop! Like Henry said!”

“Oh, please, Allison, you know that won’t happen,” Sammy emphasized his point with a sharp dismissal with the back of his hand. “Henry said it will end the nightmare. Ending it means the world will restart. What don’t you understand? We’ll be returned to our former state, wanting to kill each other and dying like idiots. Listen to me, all of you. Who was the first one who remembered their former life, a life outside an inky body? Me.” He dramatically patted his chest, not knowing what else to do to convince the others. “I did. But so did Norman. We remembered the same things, I can guarantee you that. There is a reason why we received the same visions. It’s not a coincidence. It can’t be just a coincidence.”

Tom walked to the side of the only female between them and put his hand on her shoulder. She shook her head, refusing to believe the reality. “Sammy, what are you even saying? How can you have the same memories as him?”

“Because, Allison, we made them together. Don’t stare at me like that, just trust me. That’s all I’m asking of you. Trust me on this one.” After having the unspoken approval of the lady, he turned his gaze at Henry. “All this time, right before I had the first recollection of myself, right before I remembered my name, I had a tune inside my head. The exact tune that goes with this cartoon,” he pointed to the moving pictures on the wall. “What did I see in Norman’s maze, which was also being played inside the Music Department? The exact same cartoon, ending abruptly when Bendy is cornered by an unknown visitor.”

Right at that moment, that exact scene was projected. With a clack, the film started again from the beginning.

“The tune in my head also finished dramatically sudden, at the same part, and recommenced. I think I know why.”

Finally refusing to question everything, Allison began seeing where the composer’s explanation was going. “You mean-“

“Exactly, Allison,” Sammy said before she finished her phrase. They didn’t have any time to dally. “I mean that I have a plan.”

Silence fell around them, the only sound in the corridor coming from the working projector.

Henry made up his mind. They needed a variation in actions, otherwise they would never succeed. No need to act insane and expect different results after doing the same things. After all, they had nothing to lose if they tried. “What do you want us to do?”

“I want Henry to follow me.” He turned to the cartoonist. “I need my banjo back, but I might remember something and black out for a few moments. I want you to come with me and catch me if I fall off my feet, we mustn’t destroy the banjo under no circumstances. It’s indispensable.”

“And us? Me and the boys? We’ll just wait for you, while the Demon is lurking around?” Allison demanded. “This is madness, Sammy! He could kill you, not just us!”

“No, he won’t,” Henry said. “He wants us to go forward. And you have to wait for Norman to return. Sammy, you know the way. I’ll come with you.”

“Perfect,” Sammy retorted and began walking away, fighting the numbness creeping up his flesh. He had no right to feel as light as he did, but there was no winning against the sensations erupting within his chest, not even when they were that far away from their group.

XXXXX

_A proper anniversary is celebrated in a fancy restaurant with one’s significant other, looking into their hooded, bewitching eyes over the candle-lit table. Then, when the dinner becomes only a memory of the past and lips are stained with champagne, one takes their beloved to their comfy nest, away from the prying eyes of the world, and make sweet love under the moonlight._

_Or, one is stuck at work in a crammed room, glaring at their significant other over a musical stave and drinking coffee in the middle of the night like a lunatic, because no one cared that it was their anniversary. They didn’t have any time to waste on doing nothing and enjoying a few hours off together. No, they had deadlines that were announced unnecessarily late. God forbid they lived a life outside of the studio._

_“I surrender, screw this,” Sammy declared, throwing his hands up in the air. He took his horn-rimmed eyeglasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose. During late nights like this, when he had to do overtime because Joey organised the shifts with his unmentionable parts, the music director’s eyes simply gave up working and his vision blurred irreparably. Right then, even through his short-distance glasses, he was seeing as well as through the bottom of a bottle._

_Norman was, just as usual, seated on a small, square pillow on the floor of the so-called sanctuary. He looked up, without lifting his head. His heterochromatic eyes were hooded by his thick, pointy eyebrows, casting shadows over the whites. He still held a film between the forefinger and his thumb, close to his good eye. “Oh, you’ve finally decided you ran out of swears for the night?”_

_“Yes, I did, I absolutely exhausted them. My thoughts contain only child-friendly words and I don’t like it. And worse, I’m starting to run out of curses for Joey and his lack of sense.”_

_“Oh, no, that sure sounds serious, dove,” Norman made with faked concern, returning to examining the film. A moment later, he moved his hands aside, rolled the film back into its case and made a few scribbles in his notebook. “Well, Mister Lawrence, since you were rendered to a bland version of yourself, lemme take you somewhere you cannot smoke.”_

_Sammy made a face. “Seriously. Over twelve hours of writing silly ditties on the day we have decided over a month ago that we are going out because we’ve been dating for a whole year without strangling each other - and you want me not to smoke.”_

_“And to drink water.”_

_“You’re killing me.”_

_Norman’s eyebrows lifted comically high, rounding his almond eyes. The blue in his nearly blind eye was dull, but the remaining black one was gleaming mischievously. “It’s workin’? Damn.”_

_“Hush, you’re not getting rid of me this easily. I want to die with a bang, not killed by ingesting water.”_

_“A bang?”_

_“A metaphorical bang, obviously. I like my life, thank you very much.”_

_Norman’s eyes returned to their slightly upturned shape, shadowed once again by his bushy eyebrows. “Ah,” he breathed more than said, sounding quite disappointed._

_“Ah?” Sammy made emphatically, sassily rolling his neck on each side. “Alright, Mister Polk who wants me dead, do you have anything to show me?”_

_The taller man rose from the floor, casting a long shadow over Sammy. “As a matter of fact, I wanna take you somewhere. Not out, though.”_

_“Is that so? Can I bring my banjo with me, then? I feel like playing something, I think you might like to hear it.”_

_“Sure. But you might wanna bring your bag, too.”_

_“Really?” the other man asked, running a hand through his golden curls. “To what dark alley are you taking me, Mister?”_

_“Somewhere I can dump your body if you bother me,” Norman retorted pensively._

_Sammy’s hazel eyes shone greenish in the electrical light. “Uuh, do talk dirty to me, Norman.” He let out a breathy laughter, reaching the corners of his eyes and lowering his sharp eyebrows._

_“Mhm, Lawrence, you’re on the right track. An’ since y’all so curious, we’re goin’ to the vault.”_

_They exited the sanctuary and walked towards Sammy’s office. The composer rubbed his forearm, trying to guess what Norman meant with that. “Vault? Are we robbing a bank?”_

_“A-yuh, an’ I need you as a human shield,” the projectionist rasped. “What you’re even thinkin’, genius, I meant the Film Vault downstairs. I’ve got somethin’ to show you that’s gonna make you laugh and forget we’ve missed both the restaurant reservations an’ the theatre play we were gonna see if Drew wasn’t ruining our schedule.”_

_“Cartoons?” Sammy required incredulously. “You want me to watch cartoons in the middle of the night after I’ve refrained the whole day from murdering Joey because of his freaking cartoons.”_

_“Nah, not mere cartoons. You’ll see, it’s the sorta thing that’s gonna make you cackle.” Norman shook his head, rummaging through Sammy’s drawers in his office. The musician peered over his partner's back, interested in what he was doing._

_“A’right, there you are, ol’ gal,” Norman remarked proudly, showing a bottle of aged whiskey._

_Sammy bit his lower lip with a frown, then smacked his lips audibly. “How exactly did that bottle get into my office? And how come I haven’t seen it before?”_

_“’Cause you don’t know where to look, that’s why,” Norman spoke matter-of-factly. He put the bottle, two mugs and a pack of crackers that seemed to have been summoned from thin air in Sammy’s messenger bag and gave it to him. He picked up the musician’s banjo case from the sofa. “What, Lawrence, got any complains?”_

_“Ah, none, I’m not complaining. She looks like a respectable, old dame to me.”_

_“A-yuh, an’ we’re takin’er for a spin,” Norman said after Sammy locked the office. He offered his left arm, as the other man carried his bag on the left shoulder, and Sammy took it with a smile._

_“I’m starting to feel like you have a very devious idea, Norman.”_

_“Well, you know my kind of ideas, Sammy, so why bother askin’.”_

_The composer smirked and allowed himself to be taken to the lower belly of the studio._

_....._

_Norman closed the door to the projection booth. They were inside the Film Vault, where all the cartoons the studio had ever produced were stored, neatly organised by the projectionist. Inside the place, it did feel like the inside of a bank’s safe, the enormous place sealed with a fitted round vault door._

_Sammy took a seat on one of the chairs. It was surprisingly comfortable. He took the bottle of whiskey and the crackers out and placed his bag on the floor._

_Norman left the banjo case on the table next to the one that was occupied by a projector. Rummaging through a box, he took out a big reel and opened its protective case._

_“This,“ he lifted his hand, “is somethin’ that I’d nearly forgotten about, an’ I reckon you might appreciate it. Not the theatre night you wanted, but somethin’ easy to go along with the drink.”_

_“You said they are cartoons, right?” Sammy inquired. “I see them all day, but fine, if that’s what you want to see.”_

_“Cartoons, a’right, but a bit more interestin’. You should’ave seen how fast I had to burry these reels when I got Mister Drew snoopin’ around for somethin’ else. Good thing I did, ‘cause he would’ave given me an earful at the first sight of legs. And it ain’t even my fault!”_

_“Legs? What do you mean?”_

_“Have you heard about dirty cartoons?”_

_Sammy’s eyebrows shot up. “What exactly do you have in there?”_

_“Well, I’m gonna give you some insight first, ‘cause I know you’re thinkin’ stupid thoughts right now. It seems like one of the long-programme cinemas had confused the boxes an’ sent us the wrong films back. Luckily, we got our reels back as well, but that’s another story. It’s all just good ol’ fashioned crack with a twist, by the way, so don’t expect much sense.”_

_“Cartoon erotic comedy,” the composer deadpanned. “Seriously.”_

_The projectionist shrugged. “A-yuh, pretty much that. I know how it sounds, I’d no idea this existed before stumblin’ upon these reels. ‘Cause yeah, there’s more than just this one,” he added, pointing to the large crate he had just opened. “Sure, I have some really good films around here, too, if you rather prefer, but I thought you might want somethin’ on the lighter side after such a long day.”_

_Sammy face morphed into a beautiful expression of utter awe. “You know something, Norman,” he said, sliding to the edge of the chair, “hearing all this reminds me why I started liking you in the first place, you pretty scarecrow. So, what are you waiting for?” He slapped his own thigh, making an impatient sound. “Bring out those mugs and put that thing in the projector. You’ve got my full attention, now I expect to see flying cocks and tits slapping naughty asses because, well, why the hell not! I’m tired enough to laugh at something like that, and you know it.” He shook his head, all the time smiling._

_Just as instructed, Norman held the two mugs he had taken from the office and allowed Sammy to fill them up, then gave them both to him. Effortlessly, he placed the film into position and lit up the projector, images spilling on the screen in front of them. They clinked their mugs with a smile and a little kiss, and turned their eyes to the not exactly child-friendly cartoons that delivered exactly what had been advertised and wanted by the audience. Light, nonsensical jokes about pricks wrapped around necks like scarves and flapping winged cunts chasing chickens, too silly not to bring a smile to their faces. It was absurd to spend their first anniversary like that, but it didn’t matter, as long as they were together._

_And, many reels and the entire bottle of whiskey later, Sammy was riding Norman frantically, clutching the back of the chair with shaking hands and screaming into his ear as he was impaling himself fervently on his cock, his movements circular from the room spinning with him._

_“You’d better find something odder for next year,” Sammy moaned out, grabbing the other’s hair tightly into his fist after nearly tumbling off his lap. He kissed him deeply, the room spinning a tad faster, and shoved his tongue between his teeth and groaned into his mouth._

_His hips snapped up again, and when they went down, his knees were no longer on the chair’s seat, but dangling in the air. Norman manoeuvred him, not losing even a bit of tempo, and slammed his back straight into a wall._

_“Gonna find somethin’ to topple it, don’t worry,” he promised as he pounded Sammy stronger and sealed the vow with a sharp bite to his collarbone._

_Hooking his legs over Norman’s shoulders, Sammy cried his passion for the whole city to hear, elated to call such a wonderful man his._

XXXXX

Opening the door leading to the projection booth, Sammy felt very uncomfortable, suddenly remembering he was rummaging around an oversized vault, with a monster lurking, and not climbing up on anyone.

What a perfect moment to get the steamier memories, he thought, shuffling slightly and subtly arranging his trousers.

“Everything alright?” Henry asked worriedly.

Oh, yes, and he had a former employee of the studio behind him, how could he have forgotten.

“Of course,” he replied, voice tight, but not as tight as his pants.

Lovely.

Returning to the land of the logical beings, Sammy had the sense to be surprised to receive a recollection that wasn’t chronological. Though it certainly did help him in precisely locating the banjo, just as forgotten as it had been that night, on a table in a projection booth.

The room was just as messy as they had left it, with two empty mugs next to a shut projector. It was the place they sometimes met to watch all sorts of motion pictures, sillier, dramatic or sombrely educational, and enjoyed their little bubble of joy they had built inside the dreary studio.

Smiling fondly at the organised mess, he picked up the banjo case that he had left there, for when he felt like playing something, for Norman and himself.

“Sammy?” Henry called his name, watching him stare at the room. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes. Yes, I am,” Sammy replied with serenity. “I just remembered something.”

“A memory?”

“Mhm, it was.”

Henry smiled morosely at him, noticing the two mugs. “Does it have anything to do with how you knew there would be a banjo in here?”

“It has everything to do with it.” The musician sighed. “Oh, if he only knew how much he had taken from us.”

“He’d never cared about what he didn’t understand,” Henry said, knowing exactly whom Sammy was talking about. Joey, the one who had never taken a moment to look down, at the Earth’s green soil, and see the ones he was crushing under his idealistic dreams. “Sammy, I wanted to ask you something. I didn’t think it was a good idea to do it when everyone was around, but, you know. I couldn’t not notice the way Norman protects you. You practically made him stop killing everything and actually gain his will back. I didn’t think much of it at first, but I heard what you’ve said when you were running away from the Demon and refused to abandon him for safety. There was something between you two, wasn’t it? I don’t know how to say it, but please, don’t take it the wrong way when I ask you this. Were you and him, um... close?”

Under the mask, Sammy couldn’t prevent the roll of ink falling down his cheek, the only sort of tear that he could produce in that body. “I loved him, Henry,” he confessed, jaw clenched, his sad smile trembling. “And I still do. Despite everything, in any form, I can’t do anything but love him. He is my heart, Henry. You must understand.”

His smile faltered. “My heart... oh my God,” he moaned in horror, letting go of the case and gathering a hand under the mask, over his mouth. The cardboard raised on his forehead, revealing his distorted face with no features, beside two round hollow sockets and a hand-clamped mouth.

“Oh God, what have I done to my heart,” he sobbed between his clenched fingers, looking with dismay at the banjo case that had fallen back on the table, terrible events flashing right before his eyes.

XXXXX

_It was a morning like any other, with the obnoxious bedside alarm clock ringing like it has caught on fire at an hour he didn’t care to wake up. Nothing out of the ordinary, yet, with every passing minute, it felt more aloof to Norman._

_He rose from the bed, stretched his long limbs and flexed a little, cracking all over. His bones had no right to groan that loudly at his young age, he thought as he listened to the pops coming from his articulations. He must have slept in a stiff position, he supposed, having gotten so used to sleeping next to Sammy who, despite his delicately sculpted stature, took up too much space on the mattress for just one person._

_However, Norman had spent that night at his little apartment, alone. The previous evening, Sammy had sent him home, telling he would leave the office later, after he had finished his work. The music director had explained that he impetuously needed to finish some songs for the new cartoons and that Norman didn’t have to stay over at his place, given that he would only hear him playing the violin in the middle of the night._

_In all honesty, the projectionist had never minded listening to Sammy playing the instruments at any hour, be it the banjo, the piano or whatever suited him. He caressed the notes as if they were tangible and his music always soothed Norman like balm over a sore wound. And the musician knew it well and had never pushed him away. Well, not until recently, at least._

_Sammy Lawrence was acting stranger and stranger by the day. He was becoming inexplicably furious in a matter of seconds and had developed an even shorter temper than ever. He started disapproving of anyone’s proximity. He was constantly shifting, muttering to himself, staring blankly into the distance and speaking to people like he wasn’t seeing them sometimes, finishing his phrases abruptly or just walking away in the middle of a conversation, to look at a wall or at the ceiling._

_Only a few days before, he had barricaded the music room for no reason, then came out as if he had had an epiphany, as clear as sunshine after heavy summer rain._

_‘S’not my Sammy,’ Norman thought grimly. He wished he knew what was happening. It pained him to see his beloved fading away like a candle, becoming more unrecognisable by the day. It had happened without notice, this eerie shift in him. The projectionist didn’t understand what it was. Sammy was, like he had once put it before they had started dating, acting ‘crazy weird’. The composer might not have been the most stable person, generally speaking, but he was reaching new heights with the recent development._

_Norman dressed up for work and sat down by the telephone’s table, waiting for Sammy to call him and tell him he had woken up. That was their deal – if he didn’t call the projectionist until a certain hour, it meant that he was still sleeping, so Norman had to phone him and wake him up._

_So, Norman waited, looking at the black apparel. Nothing happened, no ringing, and it was getting rather late. He picked up the receiver and formed the number he knew by heart, waiting patiently for Lawrence to pick up his call._

_And he kept on waiting, for over a minute. He ended the call and tried again, over ten times._

_Had Sammy slept at the office? It had happened before, that wouldn’t be something new, but he had never forgotten to tell him about it in advance._

_Sighing, Norman left for the studio, hoping to have a word with Sammy. He needed to stop acting like a madman._

_....._

_In the Music Department, people were squirming on their chairs. They were looking at their feet, pretending everything was normal when nothing felt right._

_That was the kind of atmosphere in which Norman had entered. He peeked into the music hall, where the musicians were whispering between themselves, and saw not even a glimpse of Sammy anywhere. He wasn’t upstairs, in the projection booth, so he went to his office. Which was just about as devoid of the director’s presence as all the other rooms._

_“Where the devil is he,” Norman mumbled, after searching every corner of the department for a few hours. He checked every door in there, even the broom closets, more than once. He asked the other departments if they had seen Lawrence anywhere, and he received the same answer from everywhere. They hadn’t glimpsed a trace of the conductor._

_Hurried steps rushed behind him, and the projectionist turned to see who was coming in his direction._

_“Good afternoon, Norman,” Jack Fain greeted him warily, his nasal voice wavering at the sight of the far taller man. He was clutching his bowler hat nervously, his apologetic eyebrows lowered with worry. “Say, eh, Norman... have you seen Sammy?”_

_“’Afternoon, Fain,” Norman replied, studying the polite lyricist fumbling with the hem of his hat. “I was about to ask you the same.”_

_Johnny, the melancholic pianist, sped up to them, holding some papers in his hands. His dramatic features were positively terrified. His usually dead eyes were running wild, filled with all sorts of emotions. “Where is Mister Lawrence? He should have arrived by now,” he commented, his voice full of inflections._

_“We don’t know,” Jack replied._

_“Oh no... Might it be that something happened to him?”_

_Norman crooked an eyebrow. He wasn’t one to listen to Johnny, who overanalysed every miniscule detail and stressed over the very human nature, but he was too worried about Sammy to rationalise anything. He distinctively remembered the composer telling him the other day that he was going to come to the office early, to start recording. It was almost three in the afternoon and he had yet to show up._

_“Eh, let’s not draw hasty conclusions about this, Johnny,” Jack advised, changing his focus back to Norman. “Right? I mean, he must be here, somewhere. He’s probably fallen asleep in some corner and he’s going to show up later, it wouldn’t be the first time.”_

_“Yeah, probably,” Norman agreed despondently. Never before had Sammy overslept until afternoon, and definitely not at work, but he hoped that was the case. It wasn’t like he’d looked very well rested lately, so maybe Jack’s supposition wasn’t that far-fetched._

_On the spot, Polk vowed to himself that, when Sammy eventually resurfaced, he would take him nicely by the hand and shove him straight into a physician’s cabinet. Get him a shrink to talk to, as well, because he clearly needed one to help him sort through whatever was troubling him and making him behave so curiously. He would find the means to get his partner everything he needed, no matter how costly or complicated, just to have him back to normal. He wanted to be by his side for the recovery from whatever had gotten into him._

_Only that he needed to locate him first._

_He tried to brush off the uneasiness of his decision. “Well, do what you can do without Sammy, an’ wait for’im to show up,” he suggested, wandering off to his business._

_As much as he desired to find Sammy, he had to work, too. The quicker he finished it, the faster he could continue his search._

_....._

_By the end of the week, not even a hair from the music director had been sighted by anyone. He still didn’t answer to any of the calls at home, he didn’t come to collect his pay check and he didn’t present for work. When Norman investigated the composer’s house, it seemed like Sammy hadn’t been there recently._

_Norman was honestly getting desperate, looking for his friend in every hole and under every rock. Sammy was eccentric in his own right, but not to the point to disappear just for the heck of it. He would have left a note, at least. Something must have happened to him and he dreaded imagining what it was._

_He needed to find Sammy, and something told Norman that his darling was somewhere in the studio. Where, he was about to find out. Every day, he waited for everyone to clear out the building so he could rummage around by himself._

_Perhaps not so coincidentally, on an evening not too long after the last time anyone had seen Sammy, Joey Drew was throwing a posh gala for his investors. Norman honestly wondered from where his employer had plucked the money for it, because according to what he had overheard from some sensitive conversations, the studio’s situation was no way near rosy._

_He had also heard that the guys in the Art Department were going out for a drink or two after the working hours._

_The more or less social events had nothing to connect the two of them, besides the chance to resume his daily search in peace, without any interruptions. As he was merely a technician and not someone particularly appealing to any sponsors, nor was he in the mood to watch some idiots getting drunk with cheap beer, Norman didn’t even consider getting invited to the gala or going to the bar with his colleagues. He had infinitely more important things to do._

_After smoking a cigarette in the parking lot that did precious nothing to calm his agitated nerves, he entered through the backdoor of the studio. The hinge screeched mournfully as he closed it behind him. Norman, who wasn’t one to ever listen to superstitions, found the sound ominous. There was something that didn’t settle down well with him._

_That time, he commenced his seeking on the uppermost floors, looking around for any changes in the scenery. The corridors were dark, as there was no one there besides him and, hopefully, Sammy. He had to be somewhere in there, Norman could nearly swear it. There was this feeling that didn’t leave him alone, that the key to the composer’s sudden disappearance was buried somewhere inside the studio._

_He hoped it wasn’t too late to find him, given what he had glanced from the shadows. Just a few nights before, he had run into the studio’s gofer and one of the girls from the Story Department who were looking for something they had accidentally let loose. Only Lord knew what it was._

_A loud crash at his side made him jump, being so lost in his thoughts. The little light besides his flashlight was coming from the small occasional window, and it flicked eerily on the walls._

_For a summer night, it was too cold inside. The air was stale and had a putrid tinge, not unlike the way mud left in the sun to dry smelled. The walls seemed to vibrate from something crawling inside them and the pipes gurgled without having anything flowing through them._

_It was then when Norman confirmed his suspicion that he wasn’t alone in the studio. It wasn’t just him and maybe Sammy. They were not alone, and the foreign presence was becoming unbearable._

_He hurried his pace. If there was something on his tail, he had to double, no, triple his efforts on locating Sammy._

_Nothing had emerged by the time he reached the Music Department. He entered the familiar territory to find a big black splash on the floor, right in the middle of the music room. He walked to it and kneeled beside it for examination. It would have looked like blood if it hadn’t been for its colour._

_He touched it carefully, feeling its coolness. “Ink, huh,” he spoke to himself, rubbing his fingers together. “What’s it doin’ here?”_

_The projectionist looked around himself, searching for another clue._

_The floorboard screeched and a shadow elongated from the door._

_“Norman?” a woman’s voice trembled._

_“Dot?” he asked, recognising the young lady who worked in the Story Department. Behind her, some of the studio’s artists were watching him with wide eyes._

_“I knew I heard someone,” Dot said, sounding relieved. “We’re here to find what’s going on.”_

_“That sure’s droll. Seems like we’re onto the same thing, Miss Dorothy,” Norman replied, straightening right back to his feet. “Pardon me for not layin’ the red carpet for you, but I gotta get goin’.”_

_“Wait, Norman,” she stopped him. “You’re looking for Sammy, aren’t you? So are we!”_

_“Marvellous. Let me through, Missy,” Norman demanded, already pushing the mousy girl away._

_She held her stance. “Norman! You’re the one who knows these halls the best, don’t you think we should stick together? We have a far greater chance to find-”_

_“Foolish girl!” Norman exclaimed angrily, suddenly losing his patience. “That’s precisely why you shouldn’t follow me! Go home, all of you, and leave me alone. It ain’t safe in here.”_

_“There’s something in here, Norman,” Jacob, who was one of the animators, said gruffly, like he had swallowed a dour object. “Something besides us.”_

_How he would have loved to deny it, Norman thought. But he couldn’t, because he was well aware of it. All those little projects of Drew’s, the ink, the machine, the hushed talks, the thing that was lurking behind the shadows. There was something unholy happening at the studio and it had taken him way too long to piece the puzzle together._

_“’Course there is! Now, get out, all of you,” Norman repeated, pointing his finger at the little crowd. “I ain’t gonna repeat myself. If y’all so smart to realise there’s somethin’ aloof, you’d better be smart enough to go home, too.” With that, he shoved past the young woman, leaving her behind with the other men that were with her._

_He charged through the corridors. The floors were dirty, as if Wally had never been there to tend to them. The substance on them was glistening, and it looked just like the blotch in the Music Department._

_Ink._

_Always ink._

_And if there was ink on the floor, more and more as he advanced... then he would find Sammy._

_“Fuckin’ ink,” Norman cursed, running after the trail of dark substance smeared over the floor._

_Ever since that accident with the pipe, Sammy hadn’t been the same. He should have realised it sooner, listened to all the signs, ignored how the composer insisted that he was fine. He wasn’t fine in the slightest. His eyes weren’t radiant anymore, and the more he looked into them, it seemed to Norman that they were losing their warm greenish hazel colour and were blackening._

_Not even in the deepest throws of passion, Sammy’s eyes weren’t completely dark. And definitely not so sunken._

_His teeth, always so strangely white and without a spot, no matter how much coffee he consumed or how much he smoked, had turned grey after the incident. And his gums, always rosy and shiny when he laughed at some lame joke no one understood – they had turned black._

_And what was black?_

_Ink._

_Norman chased after the spillage like a starved hound sniffing after its prey. The trail was getting thicker, fresher, and it resembled blood._

_Once spilt, blood kept on spilling._

_Just like ink._

_He stopped in the middle of an empty administrative room, where the thick line was ending abruptly into a widespread blotch. He squatted next to the mess, carefully analysing its shape and consistency._

_His eyes suddenly darted into the distance. Norman knew he was being watched. He could feel it._

_He heard it._

_He violently turned his head around, only to see something that made his guts clench painfully._

_“What the-” he wheezed, breathless at the sight of what was watching him._

_Who was watching him. It was a person._

_A man._

_“Hello,” the figure saluted with a deep, rich voice._

_“Oh, Lord,” Norman gasped, watching the dark silhouette approaching him. It had Sammy’s height, Sammy’s built and Sammy’s clothes. Well, most of them, as he was only wearing some trousers, his ever present suspenders and a very soiled cravat that must have been golden with crimson stitches, long before being stained with ink._

_The braces were matching the cravat in colour and pattern, perfectly fitted over his naked, pitch dark and glistening torso._

_Once, not that long ago, the two men had been laughing about the ethereal pallor of the musician’s skin that gained a blush after a mere touch over his deceptively delicate chest and well sculpted muscles. How Norman marvelled at the statuesque skin that turned into all sorts of shades of pink and red when he trailed his calloused fingertips over his loved one’s naked form._

_Partially naked form still, yet black._

_Shiny._

_Hairless. Eyeless. Mouthless._

_Faceless._

_“Oh, Norman,” Sammy’s voice told, his pointy chin losing its contour when he spoke, like it was dripping onto his chest. “My sweet, beloved Norman,” he trailed on. With each word spoke, he took another step forward. He dropped the axe that he was holding, the tool hitting the floor with a metallic clack. “You don’t recognise your goldfinch?”_

_“This ain’t my goldfinch,” Norman spat, shaken by what he was seeing. It couldn’t be his Sammy, he refused to believe that the man was once again surrounded by ink, not after he had so mindfully cleaned his pores and washed his hair._

_“Oh, but it is! Heh, He said that you won’t recognise me... yes, He did,” the inky man said, his voice distant and dreamy. “He speaks to me, Norman, did you know that? He only speaks to me... Oh, how delightful is to hear His voice, whispering solely to me!”_

_Norman’s eyes were wide opened and scared. He was downright frightened by what he was hearing. “Sammy... Jesus, what happened to you?”_

_“An epiphany, my angel! A revelation! A key to our freedom!”_

_“Our... what? Freedom? Sammy, what are you sayin’? Why you’re lookin’ like this? Had another pipe broken over you—“ Norman stuttered, finally finding the missing piece that he had been ignoring for so long. “It’s the ink, ain’t it? It’s the ink that’s done this to you! That retched ink!”_

_The inky man hurried to Norman’s side, who was still crouched on the floor. He kneeled by his lover and touched his rough hand._

_Norman’s body stiffened. The hand that was touching him... it was black and slick._

_And missed a finger._

_“Samuel... Oh God, no...,” the Southerner wailed, clutching the other’s slimy hand. “My dear, beautiful Sammy, oh no... Where are your eyes?” he asked, wryly touching the sunken orbits where the eyes he adored were no longer. There were no curls framing his aristocratic forehead and falling over his sharp cheeks. No eyebrows perfectly following the line of his arcades and softening the shape of his straight nose._

_Nothing. Just ink, dripping and moving over his skin._

_Like it had engulfed Sammy and spewed some of him out, poorly chewed._

_The dark featureless face seemed to grimace, like it was forming a smile. “You never knew how handsome you are to me,” Sammy recited, lost in his own thoughts. “My perfect man. My love. My heart.”_

_He spoke with such adulation, it made Norman even more horrified. He opened his mouth to say something, no matter how tight his throat felt, but suddenly, Sammy doubled over and his words died on his tongue._

_The shimmering man collapsed on the floor, coughing. Ink spilled from his mouth, like it was saliva or maybe bile. But it was ink._

_Ink, only ink._

_“No, please, no, no, no, PLEASE!” the pained creature begged, clawing at the hardwood tiles. “Not him, no, please! Not my heart, please... anyone, just not him!”_

_Norman extended his hand to the writhing figure._

_“Don’t touch me!” Sammy shrilled, turning himself into ball on the floor. “No, my Lord, not him... I don’t understand, no...” He clapped his palms over his inexistent ears. “NO!” he screamed in agony._

_His elbows clicked on the tiles as he dragged himself on them. He crawled to the nearest wall, like a worm, a vermin struggling on its last mile to get away from the boot crushing it. Wet ink gushed from his abused forearms. With an inhuman effort, he lifted to his feet, all the time screaming his pleads._

_“Please, no! It can’t be him who You demand for... You are cruel, my Lord, cruel to me!” he shrieked. His fingers dug into his cheeks, rupturing the fine veil of ink and making it leak down his neck. “I’ve done what you asked of me! I only ask for it not to be him! Please, I’m begging you!”_

_Norman struggled to find his voice. “Sammy! Whom are you speakin’ to?”_

_“To Him! To the one who’s behind all of this! To the Grinning Demon!”_

_“Bendy?”_

_“Yes! He’s the one behind all this, behind what’s happening to me! The ink has consumed me, and He is the only way out! I shall do his bidding and He will set us free! From this inky prison!”_

_“Us?” the projectionist asked shakily._

_Sammy’s sunken orbits bored into Norman’s tremulous gaze. “Us. You don’t even realise it, my sweet, pure love, but we are all doomed. We all shall become ink, my angel with no wings. And when that will happen, He will be the one to set us free. But His loving gift demands sacrifice. And I shall be his prophet, for all of us. Yet... I cannot make this sacrifice. Not this one.”_

_Norman realised that it was him that was going to be sacrificed to whatever Sammy was worshiping. The axe on the floor, it was meant for him. It was already stained with red and black._

_Blood and ink._

_He was going to die._

_“Samuel,” Norman blurted, his voice so rough it was barely more than a whisper. “It’s the ink that’s talkin’ to you, ain’t it? It has something abnormal in it.”_

_“Yes... I can barely maintain myself,” Sammy said abruptly, sounding very lucid and in pain. “Norman, I can’t do what He’s asking of me, please...”_

_“No, you can’t,” he agreed. He tried to smile reassuringly. Finally, he knew what had been let loose inside the studio. A creature set on destroying, a monster that had spawned from the depths of Hell and poisoned the beautiful mind of his radiant goldfinch. That thing was not going to let Sammy slip away if he didn’t do what it demanded, not after claiming him so closely, so intimately._

_Norman didn’t think he would ever be able to escape the studio, but he could give his darling a chance to find some sense of salvation._

_“But seems like you’re gonna have to,” he continued calmly. “But tell me, magpie, will this ease you? Will the voice be kinder to you?”_

_“I don’t know, Norman! I don’t—oh, no, He’s going to realise I’m not doing what He wants!” Sammy bemoaned, his rich voice sometimes gaining a second tone. “Norman, I can’t! Please, don’t let me do this to you, I’m begging you! You must go before the Voice gets to me again! It’s inside my head, the ink consumed my flesh, it toyed with my body and now it’s playing with my mind!” He was standing on his feet, struggling to press himself harder into the wall behind him, to create more space between him and the other man. “What have I done, why did I do it, why did I drink it,” he questioned himself, finally seeing the madness in his actions, the insanity he hadn’t realised until it had claimed him. “No, I just can’t do it, please, I’m begging you, angel, run away from me before it’s too late, please...”_

_“It’s alright, Sammy. I don’t mind it, it’s alright, dove,” the projectionist whispered meekly and dearly wrapped his arms around the sobbing inky man. “It’s alright, lil’ blue jay, it’s alright.”_

_“NO! IT’S NOT!” Sammy shouted, feeling Norman’s hands on his shoulders. He tried to push him away, but the other was steadfast. “Stop saying it’s alright, damn it! Nothing is alright! I don’t want to take your life! Not yours, please...”_

_“Shh, pretty bird,” Norman assured him. “You already have my life, right? It’s all yours, shh.” He gathered the shivering figure to his chest and put a protective hand behind his lustrous head. With the corner of his good eye, he glimpsed a dark aura creeping by, intently waiting for their slip like a cat watching a fat mouse. He tried to ignore it, tightening his hold around the composer. “Do what you gotta do, puffin, if that’s what’s gonna liberate you. I don’t mind it. Do it on your own terms, not when that voice will take full control of you.”_

_Sammy vigorously shook his head, but Norman cradled it closer to his chest. “It’s fine with me, duckling. I want the one who does me in to be you, my wren, not that thing that’s claimed you. I know I ain’t gettin’ out of this place, not now. It’s too late for me.”_

_Sammy put a gentle hand on his lover’s face. “I will find a way to set us free, my heart.”_

_“I know you will, dove,” Norman encouraged him. There was no going back for him, not when the dark tongues restlessly began creeping on the walls, engulfing them with flickering darkness._

_“He’s coming, Norman,” the composer whispered mournfully. “Please, run away.”_

_“Do what you gotta do,” Norman repeated, at peace with what was about to happen. If his death bought Sammy more time, he would gladly die a hundred times over. “Have what’s yours, hummingbird. I know you didn’t want this. I’m happy I found you, that’s all I ever wanted since you disappeared, to see you again. Please survive, for me, yeah, duckling? I’m gonna see you again, one day, just take care of yourself an’ survive ‘till then, right? You can do it, parrot.”_

_The coldness surrounding them was unbearable. Their skins were freezing, cool breaths tingling down their backs, and they barely saw around them._

_“Don’t leave me, love,” Sammy murmured thickly, inky tears clogging his throat._

_“I ain’t ever leavin’ you, Sammy. I’m always gonna be with you, to make sure you’re alright, right here,” he said and put a gentle hand over his darling’s heart._

_Sammy’s sunken orbits were dripping with black tears. Being supported by the projectionist’s strong hold, he bent to lift the dropped axe. He was shaking all over. His entire being was repulsed by the deed he was going to commit, but he had to do it. He was going to go along with the Demon’s requests and find a way to get Norman back. To get him out of that madness._

_But how do you save someone who’s already dead?_

_Sammy brought the axe up into the air, staring at the other man’s mismatched eyes. They held a tinge of fear, but only momentarily. It was all covered up by a trusting gaze filled with endearment. He saw nothing besides those loving eyes preventing him from focusing on the grinning creature behind them._

_“I’m so sorry, Norman...”_

_“I know you are,” the tall man muttered gently as he brought a hand to Sammy’s cheek. He smiled lovingly at his murderer and tried to project the once handsome face of his beloved over his new, distorted and featureless visage. “I know.”_

_The sharp pain in his shoulder didn’t even faze Norman. His vision was blackening, like the face he was clinging to, but his mouth still had the force to suspire, “I love you, my lil’ goldfinch...”_

_With a final breath, he pressed his lips to the inky man’s temple, blood coursing out of his agape mouth and seeping down to Sammy’s cheek._

_Limply, the studio’s projectionist collapsed into the music director’s arms, warm liquid erupting from where the sharp axe had desiccated his carotid._

_“My angel, oh no,” Sammy wailed, desperately holding onto the one he had loved more than life. “No, Norman, Heavens no, my love... I’m so sorry, please stay with me...”_

_He expected to hear Norman laughing his gruff laugh, to say in that scratchy voice of his that he was being an idiot and then kiss him like he did when they were alone, making him lose his mind._

_Only that he was never going to speak again. Never laugh, never kiss him._

_And Sammy had finally lost his mind._

_The blood from Norman’s still mouth stopped gushing out, only dripping thinly over his square chin. His comically bushy eyebrows were lowered like the times when he was sleeping, so peacefully shadowing his black and blue gaze that was never going to see again._

_Sammy hugged his lover closer, feeling his warm blood coursing over him, bathing him in what was left of him. He pressed his imitation of a mouth to the corpse’s bloodied lips, to his gaunt cheeks, to his prematurely lined forehead. “I love you, my heart, I always will. I will get you back, I promise,” he vowed. “I will find a way, Norman, and we’ll be together again.”_

_The lifeless body was getting too heavy for Sammy, who could barely hold himself upright. The axe fell next to him and he crumpled to the floor like a leaf, along with Norman’s dead weight._

_Tendrils swished by him, so close to him yet not touching yet. They toyed over the muscular planes of the dead man’s chest. Lazily, they pried the inky man away from his victim._

_Sammy fell backwards and was held back by dark members. He helplessly watched his beloved being dragged away into the darkness until he couldn’t see him anymore. His restrains disappeared with the body and light returned to the room._

_He was alone, save for the pool of blood drying by the wall._

_The tormented man kneeled over the crimson puddle and brushed his fingertips against it, reverently, still feeling its warmth as it was slowly crusting. “My love,” he whispered, and pressed his face into it, getting the blood over him._

_With great difficulty, Sammy willed himself to stand up. Very near to the massacre scene, a cut-out was grinning at him. He walked to it, his feet light like the spring breeze when Norman first kissed him on the rooftops._

_He had a duty. Do the Devil’s bidding and find a way out of his merciless grasp, like Norman had told him to do. He would survive, without a purpose, without his life, just to honour his sweetheart’s final wish. To meet him again one day, and tell him he’d done it._

_The musician broke the neck of the cardboard figure without remorse. He scratched the grinning mouth until he made a puncture into the teeth, channelling the fuel in his heart to keep going on. He untied his cravat, uselessly hanging around his neck, and tied it tightly to the little hooks behind the cut-out’s head._

_He turned the cardboard around, so he could see the face of the one he had dedicated so many years of his life to. The reason why his loved one was gone._

_Bendy. The Grinning Demon that ruined them all, under the greed of its creator._

_It was Sammy Lawrence who put the mask over his face, and when it touched his skin, he was himself no more._

XXXXX

Henry barely caught the composer as he lost his balance and his knees buckled under his weight. “Sammy, get yourself together! Sammy!”

Lawrence realised he was being shaken, but he didn’t feel anything but pain blooming in his bones. He was numb to the rest, to the shakes and to the man who was struggling to hold him up.

“I killed him,” he spoke hollowly, dark lips barely moving. “I killed him, Henry.”

“Who?” the cartoonist asked.

“Norman. I killed him.”

Henry watched him with confusion. “Sammy, you’re not making any sense.”

“You don’t understand! I killed him!” He pushed the animator that was supporting him away. “The ink I had swallowed, it took my mind! It started talking to me, telling me who I should sacrifice for His mercy and favour. Norman came to find me, he couldn’t just let me rot in this place, he absolutely had to save me, every time, never let me go...” He put the heel of his palm over his forehead. “I’m a fucking idiot, I should have listened to him, he was telling me I wasn’t fine, but I just wouldn’t listen, I had to drink that vile thing!”

“Drink what?”

“Ink! I began drinking ink! It consumed me, Henry, I was turned into ink. Oh, God, what have I done...”

“Sammy-“

The former prophet shook his head. “No, Henry, I see everything clearly now. I received my last conscious memory. When I put this mask on, I lost myself.” He wrapped his arms around himself. “Who knows how many I’ve killed, besides Norman. I don’t remember anyone but him, but the axe was full of blood, and there are so many in here.”

“The coffins,” Henry muttered in shock, remembering what he had seen throughout the Art Department. There were people in there. Real people.

“The machine,” the composer stated.

“What’s with it?”

“That’s what's next, isn’t it?” Sammy asked as he picked up the instrument he had dropped. “This... ink machine.”

“Yes,” Henry confirmed.

“Henry, you have to listen to me,” Sammy demanded, clutching the neck of the banjo case. “The little project Joey was talking about is this ink machine. We are inside it, and I believe everyone in this place is dead. Everyone but me. They had their souls extracted and their corpses were all thrown into this machine as fuel for the ink press, to make the bodies they are now in. I was the only one put in here alive because the ink had already claimed my mind and body. That’s why I remember being alive, because I was never dead. But-” he stopped, looking at the floor. He put his mask back over his face. “Why is Norman remembering himself, too,” he mumbled.

“Sammy,” Henry said. “I don’t care what you’ve done. If there’s a way to return us to normal, we have to do what we can. We’ve come so far. We have a chance now, we have to take it.”

“Yes. We have to set ourselves free.”

Henry nodded. “Come on, the others must be worried. We have what we’ve came for, let’s go.”

“Wait,” Sammy intervened on a second thought. “Henry, I need you to promise me one thing. If we get out alive, I need you to promise me something.”

“Promise you what?”

“That, in case I’m alive but Norman is still dead, I will be dead, too.”

Stein gasped and shook his head vehemently. “What are you saying? Sammy, you’re not thinking straight. I can’t kill you, for God’s sake! Do you realise what you’re asking of me?”

“I don’t need you to kill me! Just make sure that I’ll die soon after we’re out, one way or another. Please, Henry, I have an oath to fulfil that’s long overdue,” Sammy explained, thinking of the vow of meeting again one day. He would just have to make sure that they got that day a little sooner, if worst came to pass. “Promise me that you’ll help me join him.”

Henry sighed, feeling his throat clenching. “I promise.”

Sammy smiled, for the first time tasting the flavour of true freedom. “Thank you,” he said charmingly and walked away towards the projection booth’s door, searing hope buzzing within his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da, that’s it for now! I hope you have enjoyed this chapter. Please, let me know what you think about it in the comments section below! I appreciate all the support, thank you very much for reading!  
> Till the next time, bye-bye!


	8. Chapter Eight – The Meaning of the Shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mornin'! Here we are, stepping closer to the ending of this story with a shorter chapter before a much longer one. I hope you will enjoy it! Please, let me know what you think of it. I am very thankful for the continuous support you've shown me! Thank you very much for reading!  
> That being said, let us spread our wings and see what happens...

**Chapter Eight – The Meaning of the Shadow**

Out of everyone gathered at the intersection of hallways contained by the Film Vault, Sammy and Henry were the only members of the small crew that were missing.

The Projectionist had already returned with a dusty round case that he’d tucked under his arm. Tom and Jack had acknowledged his return with a curt nod, but Allison had barely sketched a smile at him, being too lost in contemplation.

Time went on and she began worrying, counting the minutes since the composer and the animator had left. Boris, despite trying to be supportive to the woman by lightly fumbling on the spot in what he believed was a cheery jog, only managed to agitate her more.

“I hope nothing’s happened to them,” Allison said, fretting with her hands while walking in circles. “They’ve been away for a while, shouldn’t we check on them?”

She received no verbalised answer as none of her companions was capable of speech. They were either mute or faceless, unable to talk to her or express any real emotion. They just stared at her, pitying her from afar and looking miserable.

The woman clapped her lips shut and resumed her disquieted pacing.

With his arms numbly shifting from crossed to uncrossed, Tom watched her with his ears dropped low by his dotted jaws, uncertain of what he was supposed to do to ease his lady friend’s anxiety.

The only one who actually showed her some sympathy was the Projectionist, who slowly wobbled to her side and patted her shoulder reassuringly, the way an older brother would do to his younger sister after finding her crying over some boy. He understood her and the source of her disquiet. He was just as pestered by troubling thoughts as her, or perhaps even more. Probably, if his articulations hadn’t been about as flexible as lead, he would have joined her in her nervous shuffling. However, he wasn’t sure he was able to steer properly in his current form.

Resorting himself solely to mentally worrying, the large Projectionist retreated soon after having encouraged her, all the while keeping his peripheral sight carefully on Tom. However, the wolf made no gesture whatsoever, standing rooted on his spot, evidently aware of his inability of soothing her.

The woman smiled gratefully at the kind Projectionist, returning his gesture with a light squeezing of his hand as he walked away from her. “Thank you, Norman,” she told him and sat down on the only chair around, finding the bit of well-meant attention calming.

They stood idly, unmoving, waiting for the two artists to return from their quest. After a certain point in time, they were so still that it was difficult to determine if they were actually breathing, not to mention being alive.

A thump reanimated the entire gang. “Missed us?” the rich voice of the musician suddenly reverberated through the Vault’s walls. Soon after, the inky man and the animator were reunited with the mismatched fellowship.

“Where have you been? You've got us so worried,” the woman immediately scolded them, springing from her seat. Boris nodded vigorously, sliding to her side.

“We’re both fine, it just took us a while to get there and back to you,” Henry said, casting a frugal glance at Sammy, who gave no notion of contradicting him. “And we’ve found the banjo, all’s good.”

“Great work, boys,” Allison congratulated them. “Norman found the reel, too, so we should get moving.”

“Just a moment, please,” Stein intervened, deciding to come clean with the real events that would follow once they departed from the junction. He looked at the six ink creatures, reserving a few moments to study every one of them.

Everyone, the resourceful lady, the two wolves with contrasting traits, the dripping lyricist, the hunched Projectionist and the willowy composer, they were all watching Henry like they were judging his words before being spoken.

He swallowed dryly, thinking about the people he had in front of him. Just by being there with him, in that uncanny world, they became so interesting. Who they had really been when they were alive in a normal body? What did they look like as humans? What were their stories, their little secrets, their hidden passions? Henry wanted to meet them all, in their true forms, not those imitations of bodies. He wanted to get to know them one by one and learn how they had ended up in that dreary situation they were currently stuck in. He wished to see them all out of that mad place, where friends forgot about their friendships and lovers killed each other. He wanted to show Joey how heinous he had been to play with other’s lives and gamble with their destinies like an unmerciful God.

And for what? For a monster that didn’t even recognise his creator?

He wanted to ask his old friend if anyone’s pain had been worth it. If the havoc he wrecked with his pointless dreams had brought him any satisfaction, any closure to his failings. Had all that destruction served any purpose at all, besides nurturing an idealistic imagination?

Henry looked at every one of them. “I want everyone to know the truth,” he began. “I remember what’s going to happen. All of it. And, well... you should know it. You’re going to follow me to the entrance of the ink machine, it’s right ahead, but you won’t go further than that. It’s surrounded by ink and you won’t be able to get to the other side without being pulled into it.”

Allison quirked an eyebrow. “Then how-“

“No. That’s my part of the story, not yours,” Henry continued. “That machine – that’s the source of it all. Of this place. It’s what created everything we see. It swallowed us whole and mixed out bodies and souls with ink. I saw the same machine when I entered the studio. That’s what shook the floors and triggered Sammy’s memories.”

“Sounds fair,” the composer echoed.

Henry nodded approvingly. “Right now, I need to enter the machine and find Bendy. He’s there, waiting for me. And when I meet him, I’ll do the same things that I’d normally do. I’ll fight the beast and lure him to the throne room, where there are several projectors and the reel that’s been taken from the box. It’s right at the back of the machine, it’s impossible to miss it. Sammy,” he said, focusing on the former prophet. “You and Norman need to find a way to cross the river and get to the machine. I’m not sure what you want to do, but it’s the best shot we have to change something. I’ll buy you as much time as I can so you can get there, but I don’t know how much that will be.”

“I suppose not that long, but don’t worry. Norman and I will wait for you in this throne room, or whatever you want to call it. You can count on us,” Sammy assured him and patted the banjo. “We know what we have to do, don’t we, Norman.” The Projectionist, who had moved by the composer’s side, nodded briefly. “Oh, yes, it will be just like the good old times.”

“Um, alright, you three have this plan of yours, but, um... What about us?” Allison asked.

“You will help us cross the ink river, of course,” Sammy told her. “I have an idea how, and our friend Jack here is going to be the link between imagination and reality, so to speak.”

Hearing that, the big humanoid ink blob put his hat over his head and placed a hand on his nonexistent hip. His other thumb lifted up with aplomb.

“Okay, we’ve got things in order. Everyone ready?” the cartoonist asked them.

“Go on, Henry, lead the way,” the conductor encouraged him, dismissively waving him off with the back of his hand. “Let’s not waste precious time. I plan on sleeping on my bed tonight, if you don’t mind.”

Wherever that bed was going to be. Although, the one at home sounded like a nice change of pace.

XXXXX

A lake of ink surrounded the huge machine that reigned imposingly in the distance, somewhat akin to a yellow medieval castle. However, unlike the case of such a fortress, there was no bridge to be lowered over the lake for the visitors to traverse.

Henry went ahead by himself, struggling through the torrents of dark matter, until he reached the other shore. Once he set foot on the entrance of the ink machine, he turned around and waved at his companions for the road, who yelled their wishes of good luck and goodbyes.

Stranded on the wrong shore, the little cartoonish group looked around the humongous chamber, marvelling at its sheer size.

“Alright, Sammy,” Allison uttered with her hands on her hips. “What’s your big plan?”

“We need to find a way across the river, obviously,” the composer stated matter-of-factly.

“Evidently! Neither of us can just walk through it, like Henry did. We’d get absorbed.” She bit her lips in concentration. “Well, no time like right now. I’ll need a lot of things to build a raft to get you across, so we should get a move on. First, I’ll need wood-”

“No, no, no, Allison,” the composer interrupted her. “Don’t get me wrong, dear, but you won’t be crossing any river.”

The woman gave him a confused glance as she shook her head. “Oh, but I understood that, Sammy, though you still need our help to build a raft.”

“No, Allison, we don’t need any rafts, Norman and I need you to help us cross the river.”

She looked at the big Projectionist that was studying the black imitation of water. Tom gazed at him as well, but the wolf seemed to understand something that his lady friend didn’t. The burly wolf walked to the projector-headed creature and began counting how many hands away the machine was, probably to estimate the actual distance to it. He lifted five of his fingers up and presented them to the Projectionist, who shook his machine head and showed his index finger. Sternly, Tom shook his head and scratched his forehead, as if the other’s gesture meant something bad.

Allison stared at them, trying to understand what they were doing. The Projectionist made a movement that resembled dragging something after him, to which Tom nodded with conviction. He pointed to the rest of the group, then leaned his head towards the ink river. The Projectionist silently agreed with the wolf, his posture oozing solemnity.

Realisation clicked inside the woman’s mind. “You want to leave us for dead,” she gasped, putting a hand over her chest. “That’s what it’s about! You want to build a crossing bridge from our bodies!”

“Yes,” Sammy admitted frankly, his voice calm and levelled. “Jack will absorb you and with the extra ink, he’ll be able to extend over the two shores. We’ll walk over your bodies.”

“And we’ll return to the inkwell of voices if you do! We will fall into it, Sammy, it will kill us!”

He nodded. “Do you think I don’t know that? But if we let Henry go through the same routine, we’ll be dead anyway.”

“Yes, but-“

Sammy lifted a hand to silence the actress. “Allison, please listen to me. It’s the only way. If it doesn’t work, we will be returned to the same situation, again and again and again, and we’ll forever be some walking puppets made out of ink. We will never get out of this place if we don’t change the sequence of events.”

“Yes, Sammy, but for what cost?”

“Don’t think that we’re not risking anything by going there! Do you think that what we have to do it’s going to be a walk in the park? No, it won’t!” the composer exclaimed, motioning widely with his hands. “But we’ve gotten this far already, we can’t just abandon all hope! We must do everything we can to break the cycle! So, I ask you, Allison - will you help us get to the machine?”

The angel clone looked down, conflicted. She crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s a complicated situation, Sammy... I don’t know what to say, really. It’s just unreal. But if we are going to lose everything anyway, the least we can do is try.” She shook her head. “You’re right, Sammy, we have to do everything we can. I don’t see any other way but forward.”

“At the moment, it might be the only one.”

Allison looked sadly at Sammy. “I guess this is the end of the road for us, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

She let her arms fall by her body, trying to smile. “There’s nothing we can do, then. We’ll put our trust in you and hope for the best. Tom?”

The wolf pointed towards the little crowd, then to the ink pond. He shook his head, then lifted one finger up.

“We’re missing a person,” Allison translated, her grimace becoming alarmed. “We need someone more.”

“And luckily for you, there you have it,” a sweet voice spoke behind them.

They all turned around incredibly fast, but nothing was as fast as the speed that Boris gained when he dashed and ducked behind the Projectionist.

Behind them, there was a crooked, dripping figure leaning on the frame of the threshold they had passed to get to the ink machine’s cavern. “Hello, boys and Miss,” the visitor said just as mellowly.

Jack slid to Sammy’s side, already having transformed his hand into an axe, ready to protect the only one that was unarmed or didn’t have fists made out of steel between them.

However, the composer just stood there, watching the woman that was decaying on her feet. “Susie,” he barely whispered, but the air was so still it carried his voice around.

She smiled with only half her face, the other half melting and dropping over her dirty dress, showing teeth that were blending in with the gums in a black and white mesh. “Do you still recognise me, Sammy? Even like this?”

“I’d recognise your voice anywhere, Susie,” he replied.

The Angel took a step forward, dragging a heavy, soiled sack after her. Both her arms were deformed and her skin dripped as she wobbled with unconcealed difficulty. One of her slender legs was twisted and she missed a shoe. She struggled to advance to them.

Crouched behind the Projectionist’s imposing figure, Boris whimpered. Warily, Allison unsheathed her sword from its scabbard. “What do you want?”

“To help you,” Susie retorted, her voice clear and singular. She took another step, pulling the big sack after her.

“Stay right where you are!” Allison demanded, pointing her sword at the newcomer. “You won’t take Buddy away again!”

“I don’t want to take anyone away! I want to help you! Please, let me help you,” the Angel pleaded. She locked her knees together, nearly tumbling to the ground, and more ink dripped from her body and onto the floor. “Sammy, please, tell her I mean no harm! You know me, I’d never hurt anyone!”

The composer shook his head. “Susie, you know I can’t do that. The only reason why you didn’t harm anyone was Norman, who knocked you out and smacked you to the wall.”

“He killed me, Sammy! When he hit me, The Projectionist killed me,” she explained with urgency in her voice. “The ink took me back there, to that horrid place where-where the voices bustle! It was horrible in there, so cold and noisy. But I listened to them. I did! They were talking about someone who remembered, who knew what had happened to us, and I started seeing again. Hearing myself again! They were talking about where you were going. I got out of the puddles and dragged myself to you, in this leaking body. I collected the corpses I found on my way and took ink from them and put it over me, so I could walk. I carried it with me to patch my legs. Sammy, please believe me, I can barely stand up, but I knew I needed to find you.”

Her legs gave in and she crumbled to the floor, next to her filthy bag. “I can barely hold myself together, but I didn’t ingest the ink again. What it’s done to me... I became a monster. And... Good God, Sammy, look at you,” she said, trying to stand up. “You used to be such a handsome man.”

“And such a good liar, you used to say,” he continued. “You’ve returned to your mind, I see.”

“I lost the fragments that weren’t me when I returned to the puddles. I want to help you, I want to get out of here and be beautiful again. To sing, to act. I want my life back, Sammy.”

“Don’t we all.”

The Projectionist moved his heavy feet forward and paced to the fallen angel. She shivered as she saw him crouching next to her, his movements awkward and difficult. He gently took her good forearm in his hand and lifted her up, back to her feet, and allowed her to lean on him.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m thankful for what you did to me,” she told the Projectionist. “I got myself back. You’re not a monster.”

Allison let her sword down. “It’s really you, isn’t it? Susie Campbell, the one I replaced at the studio.”

“Yes, it’s me. Are you Allison Pendle?”

“I think so.”

“Oh,” the dripping woman made. She shifted her weight on the Projectionist’s hip. He secured an arm around her waist, not to let her fall again. “I’ll do anything you want me to do. Anything. But please, I need to know something first. I need to know what really happened that day, when I was replaced. I need to know why you replaced me, Sammy.”

The composer shook his head vehemently and stepped closer to her. “Susie, I never asked for you to be replaced. You were my muse, I’ve told you. I would have never replaced you.”

The Angel’s teeth meshed together tighter, visible through the hole in the damaged half of her cheek. “You told the truth. All along, you were telling the truth.” She gasped, ink drooling on her chin. “Good God, Joey lied to me!”

“He lied to all of us, Susie,” Sammy relayed, thinking about the last time he had seen the voice actress, long before all Hell broke loose.

XXXXX

_“Mister Lawrence!” the small secretary chirped, gritting the composer’s nerves._

_That woman had such an obnoxious voice and abhorrent way of clicking her tongue when she started forming a word, it made Sammy desire to rip it out of her mouth just not to hear her talking anymore. Her beautiful face and charming smile were absolutely wasted on her with that dreadful way of speaking._

_Sammy tried not to flinch at hearing her yapping at him and walking behind his heels. He really struggled not to shove his handkerchief inside her mouth and tie her hands behind her back, not to be able to ever take it out. But he refrained from the temptation, no matter how itching it was. Let never be said that Samuel Lawrence wasn’t a lenient man. In times such as those, he pondered, he ought to be awarded the distinction of a saint._

_“Yes, Claire?” he asked her as politely as he could, sketching a pained smile._

_“Miss Pendle is waiting for you, Sir.”_

_It took him a moment to remember why this Miss Pendle was waiting for him, but then he recalled the memo he had received some days before. She was supposed to replace Susie Campbell, the former voice actress. “Where can I find her?”_

_“She is in the recording room, Mister Lawrence.”_

_“Marvellous. Thank you, Claire,” he dismissed her, glad to get rid of the bothersome clacks of her pumps. He adored listening to the way shoes tapped on hardwood, but not when he was thinking about a new song or contemplating about something. And definitely not when they belonged to the Animation Department’s secretary. He loathed all of her shoes, her boots, her heels along with everything she owned and produced sounds._

_The only reason why he hadn’t propelled her back to her desk in Animation was because she was very kind to manage most of his department’s administrative problems in the absence of a local secretary._

_He would have to look into that issue, too. He had no time to deal with all the deskwork on top of his compulsory administrative tasks and his actual job of composing. It was a bit of a mystery why his former secretary had quit. From what he had understood, she had married some rich hunk and well, who could really blame her for leaving, but that left him in a very ingrate position. He actually needed a secretary to take care of all those menial tasks that took up way too much of his time. Anyone would do, given they knew how to type on a typewriter and had a basic grasp of what the job entitled. Anyone, but Claire._

_That was his sole explanation as to why he didn’t snap at her annoying existence, as she was helping him too much to be crass with her. He was certain she wasn’t that bad of a person - some even called her a downright swell gal and he took their word for it - but he was too tired and had sensitive ears. A disastrous combination in the morning, when everything was too damn loud._

_He entered the music hall that was overlooked by the projection booth upstairs. He kept his eyes peeled straight ahead, walking with the elegance of a swan. In the far distance, a woman was patiently sitting on a chair, looking around herself._

_She smiled when she saw the man crossing the spacious room. She stood up and took a step forward. “Mister Lawrence,” she greeted, already presenting her hand. “My name is Allison Pendle, I was asked by Mister Drew to meet you here. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir.”_

_“Likewise, Miss Pendle,” Sammy replied, pleasantly surprised to hear the woman’s voice. It had a musical undertone to it and he was looking forward to hearing her singing. She had potential, he thought as they shook hands. “Welcome to the Music Department.”_

_“Thank you, Sir, I hope we’ll have a good collaboration. And please, call me Allison. I’m new to this industry and I’d like to keep it simple.”_

_“Alright, Allison, and please, call me Sammy, we are now colleagues. So, now that we’ve made the introductions, what I would like from you is to hear you performing a short tune,” he said. He hadn’t heard her singing, not even once. But why would he be surprised by that when he didn’t even approve of having his former lead actress replaced with a complete stranger. However, Joey Drew had other ideas for his department’s staff. Because, obviously, he knew much more about music than an actual musician with a conservatory degree._

_The saving grace was that the lady possessed a rather lovely voice, so he would have to see what was with her._

_And figure why Susie wasn’t working with him anymore, which unnerved him to no end. The previous lead voice actress had certainly tested his patience whenever she had tried to appeal to his personal side, but their professional collaboration had been impeccable._

_Shrugging off the uncomfortable memories of Susie subtly showing her thin ankles at him while they were rehearsing in the unfounded hope that he would remark her as a woman and not just an actress, Sammy focused his eyes on Allison. He gave her a file that she elegantly opened and peered through its contents._

_“Allison, I want to hear you singing this part,” the conductor explained, pointing to a section of the file. “And read these lines, too, the ones at the bottom of the page. I need to listen to the voice that I’m going to be working with, I believe you understand.”_

_“Of course, Sammy, I understand,” the lady replied graciously. “But before this, may I ask you something?”_

_“Yes?”_

_“Is my predecessor fine with my new position? I’d hate to be the reason of anyone’s disgruntlement. I really hope I didn’t cause her any problems.”_

_Sammy’s smile was so forced, he might as well have had a gun pointed at his head and it would have been more genuine. “Don’t worry about these things, Allison, your predecessor has consented to all of this. Now, I’ll be accompanying you with the piano. Please go to the voice recording booth and leave the door opened, so you can hear me better.”_

_The woman smiled beautifully, her platinum blonde hair making her blue eyes sparkle even brighter. She entered the recording booth, where a microphone was waiting for her to amplify her voice._

_Sammy sat on the piano bench, inadvertently thinking about the possible reasons why Susie had been sacked. He didn’t remember complaining about her, nor she about her role. They had had a very prolific partnership, even if he’d had to stir himself very far away from her clawed grasp, no matter how sweet of a woman she was. As much as she was easy to the eye and a delight to the ear, Sammy couldn’t rest his mind on her, not when he barely tolerated the presence of himself sometimes. Someone filled with so much life and joy snagging into his private life would only strain his already stretched nerves and he would only manage to make her miserable. She didn’t deserve any of that, and he was aware that it would solely be his fault that they wouldn’t work as anything more but colleagues. He didn’t have the time for other people when he didn’t find time even for himself._

_That reminded him, he still hadn’t replaced the bedside lamp that he’d accidentally broken when he reached for the alarm clock and hit the lampshade instead. That must have happened three or four months before, so go figure how organised he was._

_Though it wasn’t the moment to contemplate his chaotic lifestyle. Before he opened the fallboard to reveal the black and white keys hidden underneath, Sammy looked up to the projector booth upstairs. He swore he could glimpse Norman, just as curious as him about the new voice actress._

_Well, he had never minded the projectionist watching him during practice or official performances. He was probably the only one who really understood the mess inside Sammy’s head, apart from Jack’s occasional well-meant inputs._

_Probably because Norman was just as derailed in the head as him. Anyone who had worked in the studio for as long as them was prone to some quirky thoughts, really._

_Unfortunately, what Sammy didn’t see was Susie peering in as he was playing the piano, but he did run into her after he had finished his session with Allison. He found her crying in a corner, close to the main elevator._

_“Susie,” he cooed at her, noticing she was weeping._

_“I saw you!” she exclaimed, her voice watery. “With that-that Allison! How could you? I thought we had something, how could you replace me like this? And you didn’t even tell me! How could you do this to me?”_

_“Susie, I didn’t replace you,” he tried, but the woman shook her head._

_“Don’t lie to me, Sammy! You told everyone not to tell me, didn’t you? To humiliate me and make a fool of me, showing up without knowing I’ve been replaced!”_

_“Susie, I’d never do something so heinous to you, for Heaven’s sake! I’ve just received a notice about the change and was told you knew about it. Believe me, I tried to get you back, but I couldn’t do a thing about it!”_

_The petite woman slapped his cheek with all that she had. “Don’t you dare lie to me! I know what you did! You’re a vile liar, that’s what you are, Sammy Lawrence! You deceived me and took my character away!”_

_“Susie-“_

_“I don’t want to hear anything from you, ever again,” she ejaculated with venom and ran away to the adjacent staircase, the soles of her shoes tapping loudly in the hallway._

_Sammy made a move to follow her, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks. “Ain’t no chance of reasonin’ with her right now, Lawrence,” Norman told him, retracting his hand from his shoulder. “She’s made up her mind – you’re the devil.”_

_“I didn’t do a damn thing, Norman, and you know it! How was I supposed to know that no one told her? It was written clearly, in the note I received, that she’d been informed!”_

_The projectionist crossed his arms, sporting a disapproving look. “Well, you oughtta ask Mister Drew about his mysterious plans, see how much success you’ve got with that lead.”_

_Sammy grunted. “Yes, because Joey has any idea about the consequences of his stupid actions.”_

_“Well, least this new girl’s got talent. He could’ave picked much worse.”_

_The composer began gesticulating wildly, flapping his hands as if he was about to start flying. “He could have stayed on his ass in his office and not mess with my actors, that’s what he could have done! Jesus, why is he doing this to me?”_

_“Why’s he doin’ this to everyone,” Norman corrected him. “Listen to me, Sammy. You’d better see to your songs an’ dance along to the tune. The damage’s dead an’ done, s’just water under the bridge righ’ now. Ain’t nothin’ you can do.”_

_“I know, Norman, I know,” Sammy admitted his defeat. He sighed loudly as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “But it’s such a shame. I really enjoyed working with Susie. Hell, I’d even say she was my muse, it was so easy to write for her.”_

_“A-yuh, Lawrence, you’re right about that. It’s a damn shame.”_

XXXXX

Sammy echoed the sad conclusion inside his head. Such a shame, the way they had been played on a heartless man’s fingers. “I’d never lied to you, Susie.”

“I know, now,” the Angel said. “And it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? All the lies, the deceive, nothing. Nothing matters anymore. Not here. I want to help you, I want us to get out of here.” She wiggled a bit, snuggling for better support on the Projectionist’s hip. Her better forearm wound tighter around the sturdy creature’s waist. “What can I do for you? I heard you saying you needed another person, and there you have it! I offer myself.”

Sammy walked closer to her. “It will kill you.”

“I don’t care. I want to help you, Sammy.”

“Alright,” the composer said. “We need to make a bridge over this ink river. Jack will absorb everyone, apart from Norman – the Projectionist, as you named him, and I. We’ll get inside and confront the Demon when he shows up with Henry, whom you’ve already met. Hopefully, we’ll set things straight and get out of this place.”

“Jack?” Susie inquired with surprise. “You mean Jack, our lyricist?”

“Mhm, the big amoeba over there,” Sammy pointed to the waving ink creature with a bowler hat on top of his head. “He can shift into diverse shapes.”

“Oh, I see! I’m glad to see you, Jack! And you, Mister Norman, now that I know it’s you,” she said, twisting her neck to look at the Projectionist, who was still aiding her to stand up. He tilted his machine-head in acknowledgement. “Okay, Sammy, I’ll do what you want.”

“Perfect,” Sammy made and turned to Jack. “Well, are you ready, my friend?”

The gooey character gave a firm nod and glided to the river’s ford. They all gathered around him, waiting for Sammy to give his directions.

“Thank you, everyone, for the trust and everything else in between,” the conductor told them, once again directing an orchestra of sorts.

“You can thank us in person, Sammy, when we’ll see you on the other side,” Allison said with a smile. She turned her eyes at Tom, who was standing by her side. “We’re confident you’ll succeed in getting us out.”

“I have faith in you, too,” Susie added her contribution. “And please, don’t forget the extra ink I’ve brought! It was horrible to carry it, I’d hate to know it was wasted.”

“Your effort won’t be in vain, don’t worry,” Sammy assured her. He looked at everyone, mustering the courage to advance. “Well, aren’t we a cracking team.”

Both girls chuckled. “Good luck, boys,” the dripping Angel wished them. She patted the Projectionist’s chest. “You can let me go, Mister Norman, thank you for holding me up. I think I can stand up a bit longer to get to Jack. I want to do it by myself.”

The creature nodded and stepped back. He grabbed Sammy’s hand and pried him away from the two wolves, the angels and Jack, who lifted his bowler hat in salutation.

“Go on, Jack,” Sammy gave the order. His grasp around the Projectionist’s hand tightened and he brought the banjo case closer to his chest. He made sure the other one had a good grip on the reel case. “We are ready.”

Bowing one last time, Jack opened his arms in a wide embrace. He engulfed Susie Angel and her ink sack, his body becoming swollen. He slid towards Buddy Boris, who put both of his hands over his eyes and tried to stay in one place without shivering. Allison and Tom wrapped their arms around each other, locking eyes until darkness enveloped them.

Having trapped their friends’ ink within himself, Jack’s enlarged form had the possibility to elongate over the river, towards the other shore. His abdomen slowly lengthened and his arms twisted into what looked like supportive pillars. He secured his hands on the other side of the black water and battled to keep his back curved, not to touch the ink beneath him.

From the distant border, the two remaining ink people hurried to the body-bridge’s legs. Over it, the Projectionist gained the most speed, finding it far easier to walk over ink rather than wood. With certainty, he pulled Sammy after him, making sure they were moving as fast as they could.

The body under them was trembling, but Jack was doing everything he could to sustain their cumulated weights. He was barely holding himself up anymore, but he needed to see the composer and the Projectionist safely reaching the other bank, where the machine was waiting for them.

The moment the two of them put their feet on land, Jack’s arms gave out and he collapsed into the shiny puddle underneath. His lower body descended into the black river, the thick ink dragging him to the bottom. As he went down along with their little group that resided inside him, the lyricist found the strength to wave once more, just before his head and his precious bowler hat sunk into the pitch waves.

“Let’s prove their sacrifice wasn’t in vain. Come on, angel, let’s go,” Sammy said and tugged on the other’s hand, but didn't step any further. He allowed himself a moment of lingering doubt as he thought about all the pain he had caused to the creature that was staring at him. How foolish and vain he had been not to listen to the only one who had honestly cared about him in spite of everything, who had pleaded for him to seek help and offered his life to save him from a much crueler fate.

They had to succeed with their unspoken plan. They had to, Sammy repeated in his head, because he didn't know what he would do if they failed. His heart could only take so much, and that wasn't a resolution he would accept.

The Projectionist’s shoulders straightened and he looked up ahead, at the gaping entrance of the Ink Machine, where Henry had gotten in not too long before.

Inside the twisted machinery, the noises were hauntingly loud. Crashes, bangs and a concoction of screams and splashes echoed throughout the walls, making the metal and wood clatter.

There was the smallest amount of dark ink smeared on the floor, as if it had been absorbed through the tiles. The ceiling was tall and well illuminated, and the walls were filled with big display cases of black bodies dangling limply, as if they had been hanged by the neck. The long corridors seemed to lead nowhere and shards were peppered everywhere, crunching under their soles. There were dentures in the metal pipes, the glass ones having been shattered already. The entire structure was leaking from abuse and the ink was flowing in thin rivulets that dissipated into the wooden floors, as if it was blood coming from a slaughterhouse’s closed doors and draining into the sewers below.

They rushed to the place where the commotion was the noisiest. Sammy looked through a cracked door from where otherworldly groans were shaking the earth. He quickly leaned back. “It’s them, Henry and the Demon,” he whispered, pointing to the huge room.

The chamber was a mess, ink splashing from broken vertical pipes. Only a few were still standing intact, but it was hard to determine for how much longer.

Sammy watched Henry running around the place, dodging the barging Demon. “Ugh, that thing’s gotten even more hideous,” he continued in the same hushed tone, referring to the grinning monstrosity. The Projectionist had his head turned, not to distract the Demon with his light, but he nodded that he’d heard Sammy.

The composer patted his partner’s thigh. “Let’s go find the throne room, Norman.”

They sneaked off in the opposite direction from the fighting ring and followed the thickening trails of ink that had remained from the Demon. That led them to a small room with a voice recorder discarded on the floor, next to a big throne with black cushions. Nearby one of the armrests, a big reel holder laid widely opened with a film positioned inside, waiting to be played.

“This seems to be the place,” Sammy assumed, taking everything in. The floor was soiled with ink and the ceiling was infiltrated with it, making the room resemble a mouldy cavern. A circle of projectors had their lenses pointed upwards, to the screens that were attached to the ceiling and having cartoons projected from beneath. “How convenient, don’t you think? Though quite flashy, if you ask me, but well, never mind that. So, do you have what you need?”

The projectionist nodded. He put the case he brought with him on the throne’s armrest and proceeded with getting the unused reel out of the slide holder. It had a big label on it, reading ‘THE END’.

“Too bad it’s not actually the end,” Sammy commented while tuning his banjo, trying to be as silent as possible. But, from how rowdily Bendy and the cartoonist were going at it with their physical brawl, no sound that they could have possibly produced would have travelled far without being engulfed by the others.

The Projectionist carefully replaced the reel inside the console holder with the one he had salvaged from the Film Vault, and left the lid opened. He fumbled with opening the case on the edge of the projector-head positioned between his shoulders and inserted some wires in very specific slots, knowing by heart where everything had to go. He toyed with them a little longer, blindly making the correct connections. Finally, something clicked and he let his hands rest by his hips. Slowly and very careful not to disrupt the wiring linking his head to the film console, he positioned himself behind the throne, on the stand, and put his head over the head rest.

“Are you comfortable, Norman?”

The Projectionist grunted, not exactly in the best position. His heavy head was comfortably supported by the cushioned chair, but his feet were precariously planted into the padded platform that elevated the throne. He shifted a little, finding a better angle for his spine. The way he stood was by no means cosy, as he was practically hugging a massive armchair from behind, yet it couldn’t be helped. They had something to do and just as usual, he had drawn the shorter stick.

“Alright, dear, I’m coming behind you,” Sammy said. He walked to the throne’s back and sat down with his banjo on his lap. Smirking, he rested his head on the other’s bubbly buttocks, perfectly playing the role of a pillow. The Projectionist growled warningly, annoyed by the added weight that pushed the chair’s backrest into his neck. “Shh, honey, I’ve always found your ass superbly soft. Do you want your goldfinch to be uncomfortable, you big brute?” he teased, knowing that the larger man couldn’t give him a smack over the head for being so inconsiderate like he would have normally done.

His chest speaker grumbled something, but the Projectionist wiggled slightly to add a bit more space between his thighs, allowing better support for Sammy’s head and back. The musician laughed airily and patted his partner’s leg in thanks.

He placed his hands on the banjo’s fret, keeping the strings still. “The usual way? When I move, you fire up the projector?” One of the legs behind him jerked slightly. “I take it as a yes. Tell me, honey, isn’t it exhilarating to be working together again?” he asked with a smile in his voice. He lifted his mask up momentarily and bent to leave a small peck on the back of the Projectionist’s knee, then slid the cardboard back on. “Well, Norman, let’s wait for our Lord to take us home.”

Just as Sammy finished his words, the Projectionist’s bulb went out, prepared to wait for their unaccommodating host.

They didn’t know for how long they stood like that, with their muscles tensed and ears sharpened. The Projectionist kept his light off, awaiting Sammy’s signal to fire his bulb. He could feel his inky heart pulsing inside his throat, beating rapidly, more afraid for the musician behind him than for himself.

If things escaladed, he was ready to do anything to help him escape.

But before anything happened, they had that beautiful silence between them, a haven amidst the loud ruckus coming from the halls. It was so peaceful, just them and the bliss between them. It reminded them both of the quiet, late Saturday mornings spent in bed, with Norman laying on his belly as he read some thick volume and Sammy resting his head on the other’s back, playing soft tunes on the banjo at home.

They both hoped they could bring those times back. Even an imitation of them would suffice, after all they had endured.

However, reality crashed upon them with a loud bang.

Henry barged into the throne room, his breathing irregular. He fell on his knees and violently pushed the previously prepared reel into its holder and pushed the play button. The film began spinning easily.

The mechanism clacked and the images projected on the screens changed. The cartoonist turned around, seeing the grinning beast leering at him, black saliva drooling over his wooden teeth.

In the next instant, Sammy jerked his elbow and light begun shining over the toothy monster, effectively blinding him. The Projectionist had finally opened his eyes and stared the beast down.

The Demon seemed stunned by the bright light shining right into his eyes. A very catchy tune picked up, in time with the images that were projected on the walls and over his paralysed face. The monster didn’t move, didn’t attack Henry. The animator stood so still in front of the beast, he could have been mistaken for a statue.

The Tombstone Picnic cartoon rolled over the Ink Beast’s horned head. The creature was mesmerised by it and he kept his face pointed at one of the screens, like he was looking forward to see what was going to happen next. A smaller and far cuter Bendy was running away from skeletons and silly spooks, and the eyeless monstrosity watched the scene with fanged anticipation.

Finally, the small Bendy from the cartoon ran himself into a big rock. He was cornered and afraid.

The little dancing demon turned around, a big shadow towering over his frail body and making him tremble.

The shadow extended over the grinning beast’s face. His horns fell, as if he was scared by the darkness that was enveloping his form, just like the small Bendy in the cartoon. He stumbled backwards and landed on the floor with a thump, his twisted legs and crooked arms making it impossible to walk in reverse.

For the first time in his existence inside the machine, the beast was terrified. It was like one of those distant times when he had been trapped inside the small office in the Infirmary, doomed to smacking himself into the walls that confided him from the cruel humans who had created him and rejected him for his deformities.

The Demon’s malformed body twisted and contorted odiously, the limbs curling and torso appearing to shrink, getting smaller and smaller with every horrified wail he produced. Gurgles erupted from his throat as it was breaking, the neck separating the head from the body brutally stretching and thinning until it disappeared with a wet spurt. Sobs spilled between his fangs as they morphed into rectangular teeth, shiny and devoid of ink. The deformed face became round and bleached, displaying pie-shaped eyes blinking fearfully.

The Ink Demon was reverting into a blander, kinder version of himself right before the stunned cartoonist. Bendy, the small, funny dancing demon with a toothy smile was appearing instead of that hellish monstrosity that had terrorised the inky inhabitants of the machine.

Bendy fell on his back, his floating head comically falling later than his body and landing above it with a bounce.

The cartoon continued to be projected over him and music kept on playing. Not even for a second, the projector between the Projectionist’s shoulders didn’t stop and the strings under Sammy’s fingers didn’t rest idle. They kept on swinging, like any other day’s business.

Henry rose to his feet, casting a larger shadow over the scared little devil and effectively blocking the images from being projected over the small demon. Bendy cowered away, his black pie-eyes squinted, finally coming face to face with the one who had been chasing him in the cartoon.

“Hello, Bendy,” the animator said warmly and extended his hand to the tiny devil shivering on the floor. He had no idea what he was doing, but something told him that was the right way.

Love and kindness. Comfort. Warmth.

What every child needed and desired, and something that his small living creation had never received from anyone.

He had been shunned, locked away, called an abnormality. Not anymore, not by Henry Stein, who loved all of his inky children from the moment they were born from his pen and took their first breaths on their paper sheets.

Bendy’s eyes widened as he looked at the offered hand. The palm was wide and the stained fingers were deformed by the years of holding a pen between them. The demon’s big smile returned and he confidently clasped the cartoonist’s hand. He tightly held onto it, like a little boy would hold his father’s guiding hand.

Their hands remained linked, the tiny gloved one clutching the larger one.

Henry smiled, his heart bursting with joy. “It’s so good to meet you, Bendy,” he spoke with emotion, mirth and pride bustling through his words.

Bendy’s other hand extended insecurely. He looked at it for a moment, then began grinning widely. Instead of taking it, he hugged the man’s legs, knowing peace for the first time in his cruel existence. His rightful creator kneeled in front of him and embraced him closely to his chest. “It’s really great to meet you,” he reiterated and pressed his cheek to the little creature’s face.

Enveloped by Henry’s gentle arms, Bendy closed his eyes with content.

The music filling their ears stopped. Darkness obliterated their sights like a blanket being pulled over their heads.

Everything was turning black as day was turning into night, until they were no more than little children falling asleep on their parents’ laps.

Finally, the projector clacked shut and the reel jumped in its holder, signifying the end of the film.

The curtain was drawn, that time for good.

Just as it should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that’s that for now! I hope you’ve enjoyed this chapter, which wasn’t as dark as some of you have assumed, was it, now? Please, let me know what you think of this and the story as a whole, it’s always a joy to hear from you! Thank you very much for reading and for your support, it means a lot to me!  
> That being said, see you soon with the last cartoon! Ta-ta!


	9. Chapter Nine – One Winter Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mornin’! Here we are with the final chapter of this story. I’d like to thank everyone for reading, for leaving all those wonderful comments, for pressing the kudos button, for bookmarking – be it visible or in private – and for subscribing. Thank you kindly for all the appreciation you have shown to this story, it means a lot to me! I hope you will enjoy this fiction’s final entry, let me know what you think of it and of this story as a whole, I’d love hearing from you! Thank you!  
> As per warnings, besides lots of ranting that I’m apparently too fond of sometimes, there will be explicit language and some graphic scenes. As usual, I own nothing besides the plot, but I thought it would be an idea to mention this here.  
> That being said, grab a spoon and let’s dig in...

**Chapter Nine – One Winter Morning**

_"Come on, big boy, wake up," someone spoke into his ear. Supple lips kissed his jaw and soft locks brushed against the light stubble on his cheek. "Come on, angel, time to open your eyes."_

_"Ugh, go back to sleep, Sammy," Norman grumbled and buried his face into his pillow._

_"Na-ah, you grouch," the musician told with a tune in his words. He lightly bit his earlobe and slid a sly tongue down his neck. "I want you to wake up."_

_Norman grunted with exasperation. He turned his head to the side to frown at Sammy. "Why, that one time I wanna sleep 'till noon, you gotta wake me up early."_

_"It's noon already."_

_"Till evenin', then. I jus' wanna sleep."_

_Sammy poked him with his pointy nose. He trailed it through the projectionist's ruffled hair and placed a kiss on top of his head. "But I don't," he whispered smoothly as he peppered small pecks over his lover's brow. "Or is it, honey, that you are perhaps tired? Oh, how very sad. Such pity. I have exhausted my badger." Slowly, his gentle fingertips ghosted over his lover's bare back, and then lower, to his perky bottom._

_The crease between Norman's eyebrows deepened and he contemplated how much energy it would take him to swat the other man away. Probably too much._

_Sammy's hand did not stop sliding between the unguarded buttocks. The composer watched his partner intently, his smirk sharper than his face. "But of course, if my dear, handsome man is so exhausted, what am I to do?"_

_"Don't unnerve me, for starters," Norman warned him, but didn't twitch a muscle._

_"Ah, why even bother," the musician went on, unaffected by the clear threat in Norman's voice. "What a sad, sad day. To find that my heart cannot keep up with me. How very s-aah," he broke into a laughing fit, more air than laughter, as he was rolled on his back and Norman shifted his weight over him like a big, heavy winter blanket._

_"Shush, you chatterbox."_

_"Make me, honey, or are you too tired even for that?"_

_Norman gave him a look. "You gotta be the most infuriatin' thing alive, I swear."_

_Sammy grinned, showing his white fangs. He wrapped his arms around the other's neck, pressing their foreheads together. "Might be so, angel, but at least, I woke you up."_

_Letting out an amused breath, Norman kissed him sweetly, closing his heavy lids._

XXXXX

When Norman opened his eyes, the light getting into them nearly blinded him. He blinked a few times, trying to adjust his vision.

He rubbed his stinging orbs, feeling like he had woken up from a deep sleep after one of the worst drinking nights he had ever experienced. His head throbbed and even his bones hurt, as if he had fallen asleep in a bad position.

Attempting to sober himself up, he rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Almost instantly, he froze.

He immediately moved his hand away from his face and held it up for inspection. What he saw was his work glove rolled over his fingers and palm, spotless and clean.

He quickly took it off along with its counter pair, revealing his large, gnarly hands. His eyes moved from one to the other, staring at them as if they were a novelty at a fair. He turned them on each side, studying them. Incredulously, he trailed his fingertips over the middle of his face, feeling his nose protruding between his eyes.

Biting the inside of his cheek just because he could, he shook his head. "It actually worked. God dammit, Sammy, you've finally got a good idea," he said aloud, listening to his own raspy voice.

Once again, something clicked inside his head. He looked around himself, realising he was sitting on a chair in front of a desk. He rose up, his stiff articulations groaning like they sometimes did in the morning after sleeping insufficiently. He turned around, recognising the familiar walls of the studio. "Well, least I've got a head this time," he grumbled, putting a hand on his hip. He rubbed his neck as he flexed it, the tendons giving out interesting pops.

Stretching his bones was not what he wanted to do at the moment, unfortunately. What he actually desired was to find Sammy and make sure that the composer was safe and in one piece as well. When he had that confirmed, he planned to give him a good talking to about all the stupid things he had done that had gotten them in their inky predicament, and then wing it, or actually wing himself out from Sammy's imminent caustic reaction after he threw the dead cat out of the window.

'Gotta find that air-headed of mine, he's gotta be here somewhere,' he thought, wandering with his eyes through the nondescript office.

Without looking down, he picked up the gloves from where he had discarded them on the desk before him and shoved them into his back pocket.

He inspected the outer hallway carefully, keeping his footing light and discrete. He had no idea what might lurk around the corner.

However, he soon glimpsed a window's wooden frame. His curiosity peaked and he had to look through it.

The Broadway Boulevard bustled underneath the cold glass, miniature people minding their business as cars drove down the partially snowy street.

"It's the real studio, can you believe it?"

The projectionist turned his head in the direction of the voice, and could not help smiling upon seeing who was speaking to him. "Jack Fain, seems like you've still got that bowler hat of yours."

"Norman Polk, seems like you're still on the right track to getting the greys," Jack teased, making Norman snort.

"An' you just gotta remind me."

The lyricist grinned widely. "Of course I do, my friend! Shows how attentive I am! And, believe it or not, one day you'll actually be fully grey. Let's see what you're going to say then!"

"Big words you have there, Fain, just wait 'till y'all gonna turn white on the head an' come cryin' to me over some hair. 'Till that day, hush. But it's good to see you again, Jack."

"You too, matey! And, uh, Norman, since you mentioned that, I haven't seen anyone before you, have you?" Norman shook his head in response. "Damn. We've got to find the others, they should be around here."

"Possibly."

"Yeah..." Jack scratched the back of his head pensively, like he wanted to say something, but was still considering it. He looked at his colleague with a look of doubt. "Say, eh - you were looking for Sammy, weren't you?"

Norman found no need in denying it, not after what they had gone through. "A-yuh, an' I ain't got no idea where he is."

"He's probably looking for you, too. Let's go find our, um, boss, Norman," Jack suggested as he tipped his hat back, revealing an all-knowing expression. "Though, I've got some very interesting notion that there's something unholy between you two lads. I've been suspecting that Sammy's got someone stashed in the trunk for a while, I admit, but then I, uh, saw him taking you by the hand before I got you two over the river. Our Sammy, whose personal space is more sacred than the Holy Grail, actively holding hands? That's no daily occurrence, if you ask me, and it got me, err, thinking."

Once again, Norman made no gesture to infirm the bold accusation.

Jack's mouth curved downwards as he nodded apprehensively. He cocked his head to the side, his expression not far away from being impressed. "Huh, that so, ey? I've got to hand it to you, mate – you must have the patience of a saint to put up with Sammy even in your spare time."

"If you'd only know," Norman made blandly.

The other man arranged the hat over his head. "Eh, I don't really want to, 'cause the thought terrifies me. He's my friend, too, but bloody hell, can he be dramatic at times."

"Mm, ain't gonna contradict you on that. Well, Fain, let's get goin', we ain't gonna find anyone by starin' outta the window," the projectionist said and motioned for them to move.

XXXXX

Dizzy and utterly confused, Sammy tried to lift himself up. His head felt heavy and his limbs were numb to any conscious effort.

Huffing, he rolled on his back and realised he was sprawled over some empty boxes he had crushed under his weight.

He slid his knees to the floor. He hurt all over, as if he had been in a comatose state and hadn't moved in years. Rolling his shoulders and ankles, he succeeded in mobilising his joints. "Ugh," he moaned, a blooming ache exploding inside his head.

Steadying himself with the help of the boxes he had dented, he managed to stand up. The unpleasant pain went away and he suddenly felt sober, as if he had dunked a kettle full of coffee in the middle of the night.

He looked down at himself. He was wearing a pair of dark dress pants and his two-toned shoes were shiny and polished. He began patting himself, feeling the shirt over his torso, the ornate cravat with a pearl pin around his neck and the matching suspenders over his shoulders.

Incredulously, he brought a hand to his head and tugged on an ample curl. "Ooof," he grunted, letting go of his hair. "The hell did I have to pull it so hard," he scolded himself, rubbing the sore spot on his scalp.

His eyes wandered from one side of the room to the other. He kicked the boxes around, but nothing surfaced from underneath. He was alone. There was no one besides him in the deposit he had landed in.

Burdened with racing thoughts, he felt little joy for returning to his normal self.

Panic bubbling in his chest, he dashed into the exterior hallway. He looked both left and right, not knowing where to go.

Finding the determination to advance, he walked to a metallic box. He opened it and retrieved the axe inside, just in case something attacked him. After all that time spent knocking monsters in the head, he preferred to be cautious.

He had to find Norman, after all, and who knew in what predicament he was.

If he found him.

His throat was tightened by uncertainty. He should have been cheering for being himself again, that their half-baked plan had miraculously worked – but he hadn't thought for a second that he would wake up alone.

"Please be okay, angel," he muttered to himself.

Silently making his way around, Sammy navigated the entire floor. He was in the Art Department, fact that was quite surprising, and there was still no one around besides him. The place looked devoid of any human presence – and inhuman, at that. The desks were in a state of organised mess, the way they were usually left for the weekend.

He did not pay his surroundings too much attention, still looking around for the missing man. He ignored the bashful sun shining through the windows and the occasional pigeon landing on the exterior sills. He did not even notice the blatant changes and the lack of ink on the floors.

He was too concentrated on locating that one person no one found unless he wanted to be found. Such an infuriating trait that obviously had to be manifested when it shouldn't.

"Where the hell is he," he mouthed after visiting every single corner on that level.

He took the stairs that led to the Music Department. Maybe he would find him there. And if he wasn't there, damn it, he would look even under the floorboards for him. He had a promise to fulfil.

The composer's search was futile. The studio lacked any forms of life. It was a bit surprising to notice in what a good state it was – creaking and in need of some tender care, certainly, but otherwise clean and fully functional.

His department felt eerily familiar. Not just because he knew it from inside out, but due to how it looked exactly the same as before everything had collapsed into a freak show. Papers were stacked on labelled shelves, instruments were stored in cases and neatly arranged in their respective cupboards, as if nothing had happened.

There were no creatures spurting out of the floors or shadows creeping from the walls, either. There was no ink. And not even a single pipe in sight, making Sammy believe they had actually succeeded in escaping the machine.

Refusing to mind the many changes any further, Sammy returned to rummaging for his partner. He could make the department's inventory later.

Still not finding anyone, he headed towards the Animation Department. That elusive man had to be somewhere, he couldn't have just vanished without a trace. There were more areas to explore, both up and down.

Leisurely holding the axe, the musician poked his head through every door he encountered.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just desks, papers and machines waiting to be used.

He wanted to punch something.

Finally, he heard a noise. He turned around abruptly, ready for whatever was coming behind him.

It was Susie Campbell, with her shiny black hair held back by a striped headband matching her fitted dress. Her beautiful face was complemented by blushing cheeks and clear eyes betraying surprise. Her expression quickly morphed into one of delight, despite continuing to hold her hands up. "Hello, Sammy," she said in her sweet voice. "It's so good to see you back to yourself."

Sammy relaxed. "Susie," he called her name. "It's good to see you, too." He placed the axe behind his back, showing he was not intending to use it. "One can't be too careful around here," he explained, sounding cool and calculated.

"Oh, believe me, I understand. But I haven't seen anyone besides you. The studio looks deserted and I don't know if that's a good thing, really." She smiled. "But I'm so happy to be back!" the woman chirped, her eyes instantly watering. She walked to her former boss and hugged him tightly, over the arms, a bit too excitedly. "You've got no idea how worried I was when I opened my eyes," she whispered into his chest.

Sammy had the decency not to jolt, not appreciating the overly friendly attitude. Though, as he did not want to make a fool of himself for being unable to share the same amount of enthusiasm, he hugged her back, albeit briefly and incompletely. He was glad to know she was alright, naturally, but she was not the first person he had hoped to encounter.

"That makes two of us, Susie," he said, mustering more warmth in his tone. "Come on, let's see if we can find the others, as well," he added, patting her arm and subtly forcing some distance between them. "We might get lucky if we continue looking for them."

Listening to his voice, the woman's smile glowed, as if all the past traumas and deceives had been erased by a big, soapy sponge and all that mattered was that they had been reunited.

A heartfelt sentiment, certainly, although Sammy did not really care about how nicely she was looking at him after years of holding a grudge for a crime he had not committed. They had been friends once, and he certainly desired to rekindle their amicable liaison, but not in that moment.

All he wanted to do right then was to find Norman, not anything else. He would deal with the actress later, as he was certain they were in for a very uncomfortable discussion in the close future, and he could hardly wait for it.

But first things first.

Keeping up his charming facade, he invited her to search for their missing colleagues, and Susie graciously accepted.

XXXXX

The Accounting floor was even quieter than the previous ones. Sammy pressed his ear to the wall, finally picking up some vibration. "There is someone talking in here," he announced.

Susie quickly tapped over to his side. "Do you think it's them?"

"No idea."

"Do you think it's that-that thing? The Demon?"

Sammy shrugged. "Honestly, Susie, I have no idea. I don't even know if he's alive anymore, I was behind some sort of throne when everything turned into darkness. I'm not certain about what really happened."

"Oh, I see. But you must have seen something before that, right?" she wondered. "Actually, Sammy, why don't you tell me what you did after we fell into the ink river? It was so disgusting in there, but I doubt it was nicer inside the machine."

The line of the composer's mouth became even tenser. "All in good time, Susie. First, let's map out this area, we don't know if it's a good spot for a chat. I will tell you what I know later, alright?"

Susie shifted on her heels, but she tried to keep her smile intact. "Of course, Sammy. Let's go, I'm right behind you."

They paced in the direction of the sounds. Susie had to lose her pumps and walk barefooted, with the pair of them in one hand. Her shoes made too much noise, and neither knew what was waiting for them.

The ones that they found were startled by the way the two artists barged in.

"Art Department?" Sammy inquired, seeing a livid boy staring at him with eyes as big as saucers, like he was looking at the embodiment of his worst nightmare. "Kid, is that you? Buddy?"

The teenager gulped and nodded slowly, his young visage not showing any indication of having surpassed the initial shock. "S-Sammy?" he squeaked, his voice trembling.

A man with rolled up sleeves arrived by the boy's side and put a protective hand on his shoulder. He was somewhere in his early thirties, with bright eyes and a kind face, and he watched the boy understandingly.

Sammy lifted a sharp eyebrow. "Ah, and you must be Henry," he said, easily recognising the cartoonist who looked a bit different from when he had seen him inside the machine, and that wasn't solely because he was no longer dichromatic. Still, it was not the moment for analysing, so the composer took a step closer, elegantly moving his arms by his sides and preparing his right one for a handshake.

Watching him advance, Buddy's face turned even whiter and his muscles coiled like he wanted to climb up the wall.

"Oh, the axe," Sammy realised, losing his cool tone and having it imbued with uncertainty. Now that he thought of it, he vaguely remembered chasing the poor kid with an axe when he had been covered in ink. He probably had every reason to look at him like that. "I picked it up in case we encountered anything strange. You can never be too prepared around here, you know," he provided calmly, his voice smooth and low. "I'm not going to use it on any of us, don't worry."

Henry patted the gofer's back reassuringly. He supposed that the composer and the young teenager must have had other nasty encounters besides the one when the pipe had busted over Sammy's head. And who could actually blame Buddy for jolting at everything after the strange situation they had just escaped.

Far bolder, the animator extended his hand to greet the musician. "Sammy! So nice to see you in a more civilised form," he told him good-naturedly and extended his arm to shake hands. Being so close for a few instants, the cartoonist couldn't prevent picking up on how slender and flexible the other's hand felt, and the way his pointy chin and slight waist made him appear even taller than he already was.

"Likewise, Henry, not that your presentation wasn't respectable to begin with," the composer responded pleasantly. "And I can assure you, I don't make a habit out of running around wearing only my trousers."

His lady companion tapped her heels behind him, having put her feet back in her pumps. "Hello," she intervened kindly.

"I'd like you to meet a very talented singer and voice actress, Miss Susie Campbell," Sammy introduced her, but soon moved his eyes to the boy who looked like he was going to lose his balance after hearing her voice. His face was turning cyanotic from the breath he had been holding in for a while already.

That is what meeting the main sources of one's traumas do to a person, he supposed.

"Glad to meet you, Miss Campbell," Henry said, politely tilting his head at the woman.

"Oh, please, it's Susie. And the pleasure's all mine, Henry, I can assure you. And hello to you, too, dear," she told to the boy, who relaxed slightly. "I'm sorry, but I didn't catch your name."

"That's okay, Miss," Buddy replied, having found his voice. He was absolutely certain she was the same woman who would have torn his chest wide open if she had gotten the chance, but they seemed to be in a very different place than before. The one he had in front of him looked very innocent and improbable of harming anyone in any way.

The boy took his chance, shrugging off the unnecessary fears and mentally kicking himself for behaving so immaturely in front of the adults. "It's Daniel Lewek. People call me Buddy, Miss."

"Well, hello there, Buddy! Nice meeting you both," he relayed to them with gobsmacking honesty. "And please, Buddy, don't call me Miss! It's just Susie for you, too, dear." She genuinely smiled at her two new acquaintances and it turned even prettier when her eyes returned to the composer who stood by her side.

Henry could not miss that little slip up, as he was attentively watching her. Her smile was absolutely fetching, the way it reflected into her shimmering orbs making one stare at her with fascination. As he took her glamorous beauty in, Henry really wondered how come Sammy had not snatched the girl. Surely, the man saw well enough to notice what a diva he had next to him. The two of them, side by side as they were, made a pair fitted for the cover of a magazine, the composer's elegant figure artfully complementing the actress' petite form.

Susie seemed so enamoured with him. Her shy glances provided eloquent proof to a recording Henry had once found about her and the art director, relaying the exact same observation – how much magic was between the singer and the music director.

Only that, when Sammy briefly returned her gaze, his hazel eyes held no sparkle in them and his gallant smile was only filled with joshes, not true joy, almost like he was saving graces and nothing else. It was just so dry, even a cactus would have withered at the lack of sincerity in his expression. "Well, wonderful we've finally made your proper acquaintance," the musician said after a moment. "However, I believe there were a bit more people in our little merry crew."

"Yes, we were looking for everyone else, too," Henry admitted. "We've searched the entire floor, Buddy helped me around. No signs of anyone else yet."

"Hm. Perhaps, we should continue looking elsewhere. Yes, let's do exactly that," Sammy suggested bluntly, discarding the pleasantries. "Oh, and so that the kid doesn't faint – please take this, Henry," he continued, giving the other man his axe.

"I wasn't going to faint," Buddy quickly defended himself.

Sammy gave him a look. "Whatever you say, Art Department."

XXXXX

Their footsteps took them even deeper into the beast's cage, right to the belly of the studio. They upturned every stone until they reached as far down as the Archives. The circular place was stacked with files and glossaries, something more than usual in a place such as this.

Nothing was out of order, nothing was extraordinaire. It was just another department in an animation studio, with nothing outside of what was considered normal.

Which was strange in itself, after having experienced the building in such a demented form.

Sammy was clearly troubled by dark thoughts, his entire aura becoming bleaker with every new room they checked. His back was impossibly straight, probably a habit that he exercised due to the uncountable hours of playing instruments without stopping. His chin was pushed forward, punctuating how spindly and delicate his neck was under his sharp facial features, his golden wavy hair making him appear as if he was splitting the clouds with his straight, pointy nose.

Watching the lean man that was walking with obvious tension in his shoulders, Henry allowed himself a moment to study the one he had only ever seen covered in black goo, with absolutely no shape to him besides some muscle contours. His artistic eye caught how interestingly the composer was put together, hiding deceptive strength underneath his pale skin and fitted clothes, trait that the cartoonist might have missed if he hadn't seen the man without a shirt for as long as he had known him. He found it almost eerie how eager he was in analysing the dashing musician, having to agree with Susie that he was indeed handsome. He had been endowed with such expressive eyes and perfectly styled golden hair that curled on top of his head like a crown. Only that handsome was not the proper word, not entirely, as he was not exactly manly in appearance, but definitely not feminine. He just made one gaze at him for the sole purpose of contemplating his image.

Forlornly, Henry remembered his beautiful Linda and how much he loved watching her minding her mundane affairs. Many looked at her with affection, but she only had eyes for the hearty, plump cartoonist who adored the very ground she walked on.

Perhaps, he thought, that was the thing with Sammy and the shunning he displayed to Susie's obvious intentions. Hell, even he, who hadn't known them as regular people for more than a few minutes, noticed she ogled him, in lack of a better term.

That only made Stein even more intrigued to meet the studio's projectionist, wondering who had caught the composer's eye in such a way that not even the direst situation deterred him from wanting him back.

The answer to his curiosity would have to wait, however, as they had yet to sight anyone new.

Keeping an eye on Susie and Buddy, who were making small talk as they walked – mostly the woman who gently tried to ease the boy's blatant nerves – Henry seized the opportunity to snap Sammy out of his tensed trance.

"How're you holding up, Sammy?"

The man gave him a bitter look, as if he was staring him down. He was taller than Henry and sharp as a toothpick, so it only made sense, but something in that dejected sideways glance made him uncomfortable.

"How do you think I'm holding up?" Sammy snapped, his melodious voice cutting the air like a knife.

Yes, Henry should have remembered from the audio records that the composer was not exactly a polite character, nor reputably patient.

"I didn't mean to offend you," the cartoonist said defensively.

Sammy shook his head. "Pardon my shortness, Henry. I know I come as uncouth at the moment, but I'm really not in the mood for chit-chats right now. I believe you understand."

Henry smiled morosely. "Yeah, I know what you mean. You're worried about Norman, aren't you?"

"Tremendously," Sammy admitted, his posture becoming even more inflexible. "He's absolutely infuriating, I swear. That one moment when I actually want to find him, he has to vanish without a trace. But no, he only shows up when I have to do something that requires silence and startles the soul out of me," he ranted, a singular crease between the eyebrows marring his forehead.

"We'll find him, the place is big. We still have a few stories to search."

"I really hope he's just playing some cruel joke, that git," Lawrence went on. "Hell, I have no idea what I'm going to do if we don't find him."

"We will, don't worry," the animator reassured him. He was a bit surprised about the composer's shortness, but he sympathised with him. He dreaded imagining how it would be to feel such uncertainty about Linda. Of course, he hoped she was waiting for him at home, he was really anxious to see her again. He deeply missed his darling wife and he had no confirmation that she was indeed alright, but at least he had the certainty that the last time he had seen her, she had been alive. Sammy lacked such luxury.

Henry was lucky that he was paying attention to his surroundings, otherwise he would have collided with the musician when the man had suddenly halted his steps, stopping dead in his tracks in front of an utility closet. They had reached a spacious reception area in front of a set of offices, and there was plenty of space around them. Not so much between Sammy and Henry, of course.

"Henry, you've made a promise inside the Vault," the composer reminded him.

"Sammy, be reasonable-"

"I most definitely am," Sammy interrupted, his voice gaining some edge. Susie and Buddy turned their heads at the pair. "I have told you clearly what I want to be done in case we can't find him, and you have vouched me your assistance."

"Sammy, we'll find him, there's no need to imagine such drastic scenarios. We'll find him, you'll see," the cartoonist tried to reason.

"And if we don't? Henry, please, I can't possibly live with the guilt. Not after what I've done to him and to everyone else!" He motioned with his hands expansively, his fingers twirling restlessly. "Not after having gone completely insane, bringing everyone down to the ground with me. For fuck's sake, I don't even know the full extent of what I've done! For all I know, he is dead, rotting God knows where!" His eyes widened at the realisation of what he had just said. He put a hand over his mouth. "I really need to find him, whatever state he's in! Please, Henry, at least to bury him, I just- oh, God, let me at least bury him," he mumbled with his mouth covered with a hand, fully breaking down.

"Jesus, Lawrence, I ain't even dead an' you wanna bury me," a harsh voice travelled through the room, making the composer jolt. "The hell did I do?"

Sammy's head turned around so fast, he could have broken his neck if his muscles were not so tensed. His hand moved away from his mouth, relief washing over his face despite maintaining the lour.

"You're a goddamn moron, that's what you did," he immediately provided as an answer, sounding fonder than his words ensured. He zoomed so quickly to the other side of the room, where a very unimpressed Norman was listening to his banter, that he might as well have dived through the air.

In front of the tall man, Sammy, whose height in comparison to other people was usually quite mentionable, looked like a badly tempered hummingbird. He punched Norman in the arm in a way that probably hurt them both. "You've gotten me so worried, you bloody insensitive dolt! Fucking idiot! Oh my God, Norman," he rambled, jumping up on the tips of his toes and wrapping his arms around the projectionist's neck.

He was instantly caught up by strong arms wrapping around his waist and holding him tightly. "I can't believe you're alive, oh Lord," Sammy whispered, his voice trembling. "Thank you so much, I thought I've lost you, my angel."

Norman smiled in his hair and tightened their embrace. "'Course not, magpie, someone gotta prevent you from shoutin' at everyone, otherwise you're gonna lose your voice. Though, that might be an idea."

Sammy puffed, feeling his heart bursting out of his chest. Completely forgetting about the tiny little fact that they were still in a room full of other people who were obviously staring at them, he kissed his missing lover with pathos, nearly banging their foreheads together.

However, Norman was still aware of his surroundings and effectively peeled the composer off him, although not as hastily as it would have been considered courteous. Well, let there not be said that he hadn't tried. "Slow down, Sammy, you're gonna break your nose and I ain't patchin' you up again," he said, lifting a telltale eyebrow in the direction of the people that were looking at them with barely hidden emotions rampaging over their features - Henry smirking mirthfully, Susie blinking astonishingly fast, and Buddy's expression so bewildered, he might as well have seen a chimera with three heads right at the moment.

"Say, eh, Sammy, if I let you punch me, do I get a kiss, too?" Jack asked with curiosity, appearing from behind Norman and breaking the awkward silence with a more than matching question.

"No, Jack, you're just going to remain without teeth," the composer retorted curtly, glaring at the lyricist.

"Doubtfully, you ain't got no idea how to hit," Norman commented lightly, not actually believing that the other would do something like that. But he was wrong.

"That so? Oh, let me just prove I do know how to hit," Sammy grumbled and grabbed Jack's collar. The lyricist quickly brought his hands up.

"Hey, Sammy, don't show it on me! Knock his teeth out, not mine!" he exclaimed and pointed a finger at Norman.

"And why should I? I don't care about your teeth."

"Sammy, you're a cold ass bitch," Jack remarked, breaking into laugher. "Swell to have you back in full swing, old mocker," he said, heartily patting the composer on the back, who returned it with a smile.

Henry was about to introduce himself to the newcomers, but Norman made him stop in his tracks. He was frowning very clearly, weary marks appearing on his forehead. He looked up at the ceiling, his eyes darting from a corner to another. He abruptly turned around and cupped Sammy's right temple, lifting that side of his fringe up.

The musician flinched at the sudden movement. "What the-"

"Pardon me for makin' no pleasantries right outta door, but we've got another problem," the projectionist told, moving aside so Sammy's forehead was visible to everyone. No one seemed to understand what Norman was doing, besides Buddy, whose grimace turned into puzzlement. "Might be my mind playin' tricks, but I distinctively remember hearin' you sayin' you've pulled a shard out of your forehead when that pipe broke over your head."

"Yes, I remember that, too!" Buddy provided, finding his voice. "It was a sharp piece of glass and he was bleeding."

"Naturally I was bleeding," Sammy cracked annoyedly, glowering at Norman, who was still keeping him into place. "What about it?"

"I had to stitch you up, the gash had nearly reached the bone, remember?"

"Yes, so? It isn't something to put in a display case!"

"It sure ain't, but where's the scar?"

"What?" Sammy interjected and swatted the other aside. He felt around his forehead, finding it perfectly smooth. "Where's the scar?" he echoed Norman's question and looked quizzically at the taller man.

"Hm?" Henry hummed, no longer smiling. "What are you suggesting?"

"Ain't suggestin' a thing," Norman retorted. "But far as I can see, Sammy's got no scar where I sewed him up, and marks like that don't just disappear." He pointed a crooked finger at the black turtleneck he was wearing. "An' consider it irrelevant, but just to convince y'all there's somethin' curious brewin' under our noses, I'm wearin' a sweater I know for certain I tore in two when it clang into a nail and I sure didn't mend it. So how come it's intact righ' now? And since I'm pointin' things out, Jack's hat doesn't have that dent in the left side of the brim he made when it got caught in the fallboard. From how he was mournin' that damned brim, you would've thought his entire kin perished. An' seriously, I hope I ain't the only one noticin' the obvious."

"There're no pipes," a hoarse voice spoke from the other entrance of the chamber. A burly man sporting a stern face entered, closely followed by a dainty woman with platinum blonde hair.

"A-yuh, precisely, Connor," Norman agreed. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but here's the place you've installed the first drainin' station, ain't it?"

The engineer nodded. "Exactly, Polk. There should be pipes in the ceiling, beneath the false cover."

Moving away from Sammy and Jack, who were both sharing a similarly confused expression, Norman paced to a ventilation grate. He sprung up and grabbed the edge, steadily holding himself up as he looked inside. Soon, he let go, his soles landing on the floor as easily as if he had descended a stair. "Empty," he stated.

Sammy hurried to press his ear to the closest wall, lifting his hand to ask everyone to make no noises. He listened to it for a few moments, then moved to another spot.

Surprisingly, there were no bubbling sounds coming from beneath the wood. "It's silent, completely silent actually."

"And it's even more interesting," said Allison, the woman who had arrived with Connor. "We have no wedding bands." She lifted her left hand. "I'm absolutely certain we'd gotten married and wore rings, we bought them together in 1951 and had the wedding in 1952."

"'52?" Norman made with surprise. "My memories stop in, I dunno, '46?"

"Yes, that's the year when the pipe burst over me," Sammy said.

"And I got hired in here," Buddy added.

Henry gaped at them. "I received the letter that brought me back to the studio in the '60s."

Norman crossed his arms. "Right... so we have all sorta manners of years scrambled around, but when exactly in time are we?"

"What do you mean?" Susie asked, her voice preserving the bite she had acquired after seeing Sammy ditching everyone to welcome the projectionist way too intimately. "All of you must be confused."

Norman turned his attention at her. "When did Mister Drew make his proposition to you, Susie? Bringin' Alice Angel to life?"

The woman shifted uneasily, due to both the question and the man asking it. "It must have been around nineteen-forty, um... four. Yes, 'forty-four."

"Okay, that's getting a bit over my head. What's exactly going on?" Jack inquired. "It's making absolutely no sense."

"Actually, Fain, it might actually make sense," Norman told and left them for a second, entering one of the offices that was hidden behind the reception room. "If I'm not mistaken," he said as he crouched under a desk, "this is Cohen's office and he always keeps the last week's newspapers over the weekend an' throws them away on Mondays." He rummaged through the drawers, then spread some sheets he acquired from them on the table top. He frowned and looked at another front page, then to the next one.

Henry soon followed him inside the office and read the date that was written on the newspapers, right under the publication's logo. "That's odd," he commented. "Curiously odd."

"Nah, hear me out, Henry, after havin' a projector as head, allow me not to be surprised by anythin'," Norman snarled. He extended a hand at the cartoonist, who shook it with a bit of a lost expression. "Didn't exactly make introductions, did we," Norman explained, then returned to looking through another stack of papers. "An' also, you might be sayin' things about the 'sixties, but you ain't lookin' older than thirty or thirty-five, tops. No one looks older than that, actually, if you don't count the kid. An' I think I still know how to add up, and what I'm seein' sure ain't amountin' to the sum I had in mind."

"What is it?" Sammy quipped in, appearing from behind the doorframe. He strained his neck, trying to see over Norman's shoulder. "Did you find anything in Grant's papers?"

The projectionist nodded. "A-yuh, a date. An year, actually. It's recurrent."

"And?"

"Well, let's say I now understand why Jack said I'm only beginnin' to grey."

Sammy's brows furrowed. "He's not exactly wrong, you only have a few grey hairs," he noticed with surprise. "Actually, you barely have any at all. But, that means... the hell?" he made, his eyes bulging as he read the small date printed on the newspapers.

"Mhm, 1943."

"Are you sure?" Sammy inquired and grabbed the newspaper. "Tom!" he shouted from the office, his powerful voice getting through everyone's eardrums like a spear. He walked to the door with long steps. "When did you make the contract with the studio?"

"In '43, I remember it like yesterday."

"It might just be yesterday."

"What are you saying, Lawrence?" Thomas demanded immediately, forgetting to correct Sammy for calling him on his given name, and not even the proper one.

"We need to check it, first, but I believe we currently are in the year when the Ink Machine wasn't yet in project."

Allison's eyebrows shot up her forehead. "Sammy, don't be ridiculous, that can't be."

"No, Allison, it might actually be. You remember me disappearing, don't you? Henry mentioned there was an investigation." The woman gave an affirmative nod, albeit a reluctant one. "Then why am I here?"

"Sammy," Jack interrupted, being apparently the only one who was rational between them and was not jumping at conclusions. "If that's true, we can check with the music. You always kept the dates noted on your sheet music, so we can check when the latest composition was written."

The composer agreed. "We'll have to return to the Music Department for that. We can confirm if this is just madness or if, for some strange reason, we actually are in '43."

"Count me in, mate," Fain offered himself to accompany his colleague.

"Perfect. Let's go, Jack."

"Wait," Henry intervened as soon as he left the adjacent office. "You two should take another one of us with you, at least. You don't know if it's completely safe to walk around."

"I believe we're very much alone," Norman mused, coming behind the cartoonist. "It's just us, the ones who've seen the Ink Machine inside the imitation of a studio we've been trapped in. An' by how quiet the traffic outside is, I reckon it's the weekend, probably Saturday mornin'. Sundays are even less animated. An' there's snow on the street an' it ain't no water stains that hadn't dried, so there hadn't been anyone in here for a while. But I'll go with'em in case of anythin', we'll meet you in front of the Administration offices. Y'all know how to get there."

"Why Administration?" Allison asked.

"To have a word with Henry's old friend, of course. Mister Drew," Norman retorted. "I've got half a mind the man's gagglin' with anticipation, waitin' for us to show up. He might even have a hand in all this mumbo-jumbo." He chuckled hoarsely. "What am I sayin', he's got his arm up to the shoulder in it."

With that, the three department colleagues left the others, walking alike their inky selves - Sammy slowly and straight as a board, Jack wobbling excitedly by his side and Norman appearing not to lift his feet off the ground.

Henry watched them leave. He noticed how Susie averted her eyes to the floor, visibly upset, but he didn't think it would be sensible to ask her if she was fine. He instead focused on Allison, who was ready to go to their rendezvous point. "I think Norman's right," he told them. "We're experiencing something very strange and Joey definitely knows what it is. With a bit of luck, Norman's supposition is actually true and we'll find him in his office."

"Let's go there, then," Tom agreed. "And if he's there, let's have a chat with Mister Drew. It's long overdue."

XXXXX

The searches in the Music Department proved fruitful very quickly thanks to Sammy's rigorous filing system. Normally, he was very chaotic in thinking, but when it came to his music, everything was put under a label on a shelf.

Not that it was fully a joyous thing, because it still did not provide any explanation to how they had leaped straight into the past, and the composer was dead set on talking about it like a broken record.

"Was it perhaps what Henry did? But why didn't it happen on any other occasions?" Sammy pondered, thinking about what happened in the throne room, back inside the Ink Machine. "Or maybe it was the cartoon? Or the music. Or maybe it happened because we knew we weren't in the real world?" He moved a box to the side. "But then, why did we return now? Wouldn't it have been more convenient to return to a future time? How did it actually happen? And why now?"

"Damn it, Sammy, stop running your mouth," Jack admonished the composer, who was blurting about this and that while they were checking a closet by themselves. Norman was in the adjoined office, checking the schedules to confirm their suspicions with another source. "You should be thankful you're alive and in sound mind, you've gone completely cuckoo during that last year. Do you, uh, even remember what you've done? You've managed to lock everyone out of the department!"

"Keep it lower, Jack."

"No, I'm not keeping anything lower, stop being the perpetual stick in the mud! Just, eh, say thank you and move along!"

"Yes, but-"

"No buts, Sammy, stop it! You've got another chance to do things right, why do you have to stress over it? Honestly, just stop."

Sammy glared at him.

Jack returned his lour. "Look, Sammy. It doesn't matter why things happened this way, you have to just, um, take them as they are and move along. You can rectify some big mistakes you've done in the past, so why are you complaining so much? No one gets this, err, kind of chances, so be grateful for them."

"Yes, but-"

"I'm going to punch you if you don't cease with that!" the lyricist admonished him. "Listen to me, Sammy. You've been an ass with Susie when you could've just phoned her and explained the situation why she had been sacked. But now, guess what? You get to talk to her now and rectify things with her! Magical, right? Of course, if she's willing to listen to you after you didn't think it was a good idea to tell her about, you know, the obvious thing!"

"What obvious thing?" Lawrence questioned.

"That you're queer, you dumbass! You've got no idea what wishful plans she was doing with you inside her head! And look, I really don't care you like men, women or, I don't know, goats! I don't care you're an ass-hat and rude to anyone with a pulse, but bloody hell, mate! I care that you've complained all the way to the Music Department. Didn't you see how miserable you made Norman feel when you were rambling about stupid things when he was just trying to cheer us up on the way here?"

"That's not true, I-"

Jack slapped him across the nape, finally determining the conductor to end his tirade. "It's bloody true, you blind fool!" the lyricist broke out. "Instead of doing the polite thing and have a normal conversation, you just talked by yourself about how wrong's everything. What exactly is wrong? That you have your friends around you after having gone through, uh, a shit-storm? Is that so wrong? And why the hell did you have to be so inconsiderate? Okay, you can be a jackass to me because that's how you are, but be nice to Norman, at least! You think he came with us because he likes walking around the studio? No, you stupid prat! He's here to make sure nothing happens to you!"

"I'm sure that's not the case, Jack."

"Of course it is! He's been turning every rock to find you, even if he didn't say anything about it. I was with him all the way down here! You know how you can throw anything at Norman and he's as impressed of it as yesterday's news, right? You can't imagine how relieved he looked when he heard you for the first time! Why can't you act like a normal person and be content for once? And don't talk over people, for God's sake, it's bloody rude!"

"Jack," Sammy called in his most superior tone, as if he knew something no one did, "you don't know what I have done to him. I can't just act all cheery about it. I am very thankful for everything, don't get me wrong, but, how to say it... I have..." He exhaled. "I have wronged him terribly, Jack."

"So? What have you even done that got you so worked up? You didn't hurt him, right?"

"He was dead before it got to hurt him. Fucking hell," Sammy cussed and put a hand on his forehead.

"Damn."

"Yes, damn! Why do you think I'm like this, Jack?

"And you thought that by blabbering like a chatterbox, you'd just divert his attention? I can't believe you can be this dumb."

Sammy sighed. "I really don't know what to do... What if he remembers?"

"Uh, Sammy, what makes you think he doesn't? That one's got the memory of an elephant, he recalls what everyone's done. See, even I remember what happened to me before losing track of myself. I remember that at some point, I was here, uh, reading something, you know, and someone put a cloth over my face. I don't know what happened next, but, um, it feels like nothing happened. Like I was dead."

"Most likely."

"And then, you think Norman doesn't know that you've done something to him? Christ, Sammy, you're a genius musician, but in any other domain, you're an idiot."

Sammy clicked his teeth. "Fine, fine, you made your point."

"Don't 'fine, fine' me. Don't muck it up, that man's got a heart of gold for putting up with you. And let's not forget the Susie-situation, since I've just mentioned it and I know you've already forgotten about it."

"What about her?" the composer snapped.

"Jesus, man, are you this near-sighted? She's still head over heels with you! Maybe not as much as she used to be, but she was genuinely pained when she saw you two, Sammy. I'm sure you haven't noticed how she was watching you."

"I-"

"Look, mate," Jack interjected. "Whatever you choose to do, just be considerate for once in your life, because you can lose more people than it's necessary just because you act like a peacock. And yes, I know Norman calls you bird names, I've accidentally overheard some snippets. Nothing much though, thank Goodness."

"I honestly loathe you, Jack."

"Whatever you say, mate. Just don't be too much of an arse to people close to you, okay?"

Sammy snorted. "Fuck off."

"Gladly, my friend," Jack retorted and patted his back.

Behind them, Norman poked his head inside the closet. "Got claustrophobic enough, you two?"

"I guess we did," Jack replied. "Found anything?"

"Only that Sammy needs a secretary and his writing's horrible."

Sammy made a face. "I know that already, but besides that?"

"It all confirms it, really," he relayed. "We're actually, I don't know how, in a moment we've already lived."

Jack smiled easily. "Like we're receiving a second chance," he said, reiterating the same thing he had just told to Sammy. The composer rolled his eyes at the statement.

"I don't wanna raise your hopes up, Fain, 'cause for all I know, we might still be in some kinda mess, but it appears so. We get a chance not to have that monstrosity built. I gather you two found the same thing."

"Mhm," Sammy hummed in agreement. "And I think that around this time Tom first came to the studio for negotiations, so we might be in a moment before Joey had signed with GENT."

"Well, if that's so, we should get goin', tell the rest what we discovered. Let's not keep everyone waitin'," the projectionist suggested.

"Say, Norman, what's the fastest way to the Administration?" Jack asked.

With a smile that bordered on sinister, Norman replied, "Through the sewers, of course."

"Ah, no, no," Sammy immediately made. "We're not going through the sewers."

"An' why not, Lawrence? Just take Fain's good example and keep your delicate nose closed. You ain't gonna die if you do," he idly commented as he began leading the way.

Sammy chewed on his tongue.

Jack squeezed his friend's shoulder. "Ey, what were you just saying, Sammy? That he doesn't know?" he teased and immediately dashed away from the other man. He had to hurry, otherwise his boss would finally demonstrate how proficient he was at extracting teeth.

XXXXX

The rest of the small group reached the Administration offices. They all gathered in the lobby, waiting for the others to join them.

The reception area looked very similar to the way it did inside the cartoon world, if one overlooked the evident lack of ink and monsters springing out through the currently locked doors.

Henry was becoming impatient, fearing something had happened to their companions. He had been talking with Tom for a good while, learning more about the machine and its inner workings, now that the man was able to talk and no longer a mute wolf. But he was becoming more agitated by the minute, uncertain about everyone's safety. That was prone to happen whenever silence became too heavy.

Finally, the reckoning little team returned, bringing news with them.

"We were indeed correct," Sammy announced as soon as he entered the reception. "It's the end of February, 1943. Everything in the Music Department is left the way we normally leave it during the weekend."

One of Thomas's eyebrows lifted. "February, you say... That's some good months before the machine was commissioned and designed," he related. "We ain't signed the contract yet."

"How very strange," Allison said. "It doesn't really feel like a coincidence, does it, dear?"

"It probably isn't," Henry agreed. "Thank you for checking things up. I really hope you were right about finding Joey, Norman, because I really want to have a word with him. More words."

The buff engineer grunted in approval. "Believe me, Stein, not just you," he told, looking down at his not-exactly wife, given the unforeseen development. She smiled warmly at him. "Mister Drew's got some serious amends to make," he continued.

"Oh, dear, you're right about that," Allison responded to her partner's statement. "And it's not just us. It's going to be so complicated to explain to everyone what's happened and why they were stuck in the machine. We're going to have to tread very delicately. I mean, everyone's gotten out of it with us, right? The machine isn't even a reality right now, if I understood correctly."

Norman shrugged. "I dunno what to say, Allison, the machine's probably just a mad spur of imagination right now. Thing is - imagine what a disaster it's potentially gonna be for everyone in the studio to know what happened to them, since we've concluded all those things that'd been lurkin' about were studio employees, like us."

"What does it have to do with anything?" Sammy asked, crossing his arms.

"Well, we all know we were affiliated to the studio in this exact moment in time, but I can't say for sure about the others. Some of the people we knew are now doin' Lord knows what and where. It ain't the 'fifties or the 'sixties right now, it's '43. Don't forget there's still a war goin' on, an' that's gonna end in two years," Polk reminded them about the history they had already lived and were going to live again. "And let's face it, Drew sure's got a hand in our escape, the same way he's got one in how we've gotten inside the machine in the first place. Ain't nobody tellin' me it was some divine intervention that we suddenly became aware of ourselves and started makin' changes to the routine, because that's a lotta bull. We've made our choices when we got our consciousness returned, sure, but it didn't just pop up from the everlasting fields."

He leaned on a wall and crossed his legs in front of him. "And I do stand by my words. Drew's not gonna want too many to know about his deeds, especially those who would have found themselves back on the front again, or those who lost someone in the near future. Not to mention we ain't got no idea how most of us got in the machine in the first place, or that it even existed. It'd be a disaster for everyone."

"I hope they're all fine," Allison said, being as considerate about everyone else as she usually was. "There were so many nice people hired here."

Normal waved a hand. "They've been fine once, they're gonna be fine again. We just gotta make sure we don't let anythin' compromisin' slip out, 'cause it's more than our hides at stake here."

"That's just peachy," Sammy mumbled, rubbing his forehead. "I might have implied something about your teeth Jack, but I'm starting to be more inclined to work on Joey's."

The lyricist chuckled. "If you want, Sammy, I'll hold his head while you fix his denture."

Lawrence puffed through his nose. "It shall be our finest collaboration yet, won't it, Jack."

Henry gave them a sceptical look, but did not dare adding any comments. He was not sure if they were joking or not, but he was not going to bring up the issue.

"So," Susie perked up, speaking for the first time since they had arrived to the Administration's lobby. Her tone was not especially cheerful. "We should probably get a move on, we can't dally in the reception forever."

"Yes, I'll be going now," the animator announced.

"Do you want anyone of us to come with you, Henry?" she added in a much sweeter voice than before, regaining her pretty smile.

The cartoonist's heart clenched, remembering how the ink had perverted her. "No, Susie, thank you. I think I need to do it alone. I'll be right back, don't worry about me. I just need to have a good talk with my old pal."

"Good Golly Gosh, that leaves us lot to catching up," Jack proposed with enthusiasm, losing it as fast as it came up. Given how out of place everyone looked, catching up was going to be the last thing they would do.

The two women took a seat on the chairs behind the reception desk, affably studying each other and exchanging small talk, being far more cordial than the idle men standing up. Tom glowered in the general direction of the offices, probably lost in his thoughts. Jack didn't do much besides gazing at everyone and occasionally intervening in the ladies' discussion when they addressed something to him. Buddy's melancholic expression was lost in space as he stared right through Henry's turned back, thinking about his departed father, thankful that at least he was not going to relieve the terrible day when he and his mother learnt about his death.

Henry, for his part, was mustering up the courage to go through the Administration's archway and down the hallway to Drew's office. There were so many things that could go wrong, they could still be trapped in the cartoon world but with other variables, or there might not be anyone in the offices. Everything could very well be a hoax or a horrible jest on their expenses. All it was going to take to unravel the mystery was but a step.

Silently, Sammy walked to one of the large window sills, right next to where Norman was leaning against the wall. He placed his palms flatly over the surface, preparing to jump up and seat on the sill, when his attention was distracted by an enthusiastic voice that he had not heard in a good while.

"My friends, I see you've made it!"

"We aren't your friends, Drew," Tom disrupted the cheery speech like a demolition boulder. He came face to face with the owner of the studio, Mister Joey Drew, who had no right to be smiling at them the way he did. "And that one person who was actually your friend, you dragged into this mess," the engineer reproached.

"Now, Tommy, no need to get defensive-"

"It's Mister Connor to you, Mister Drew," the wall-like man enunciated their names with unveiled anger, his fists balling up. "You've stolen what was legally mine, perverted my patent to fulfil your unrealistic dreams and when it didn't turn out as planned, because you refused to acknowledge you had no idea how to work my machine, you decided to bury it all and everyone else along with it!"

Joey Drew tried to add a few words in between, but the stern man was set on causing a scene. Normally, Allison would have intervened gently, just like she usually did when an unpleasant matter surfaced, but that time, she only shifted on her chair and straightened her back, supporting her partner from afar. There were things to be called on their rightful name.

"And you just couldn't leave it alone, could you," Thomas continued, his granulated voice getting rougher. "Not only you've bankrupted the studio, covered up for the missing persons with bogus lies, but you also had to call everyone else back to make sure they didn't talk. Allison was kind to send you recipes and ask how you were doing because you've driven everyone else away and she took pity on you, and you've called us back to silence us? And what you did to the others, I don't even wanna imagine. I never liked Mister Lawrence, but what you did to him is disgusting and vile."

"I didn't do a thing to him!" Joey defended himself. He quickly looked at his oldest friend, who was staring at him with clear disapproval. "You don't seriously believe all this, do you, Henry?"

Before the animator said anything, Sammy was already back on his feet and in front of Joey, sharp as the Devil's pitchfork. "Am I hearing it right, Joey? Didn't do a thing? You filthy liar," he accused dejectedly, his pronunciation conveying just how conceited he could be. "The ink pipes weren't your idea, no? The shit planning wasn't yours, no? The impossible deadlines, the lack of communication and unnecessary modifications weren't yours, no? It was just me and some hundreds of people working their eyeballs out of their skulls, but never you. How dare you, Joey, after everything I've sacrificed for you and your fucking studio, eating up my health and wondering if I'll get to the end of the year alive, come say to my face that you didn't do a thing to me. I had weeks upon weeks of sleeping for two hours a night, if that, all because of you! And that ink, what the hell did you do to with it? How dare you still put it on any of us, after we immolated our very sanity for your foolish dreams?"

Joey lost his cheery voice. "You work for me, Sammy, should I remind you of that? And don't talk to me about sacrifice! I wanted to take us to new peaks!"

"Peaks? What in the blazes peaks are you talking about? You literally drove us into our graves, you son of a bitch!" Sammy exploded, his normally levelled speech turning caustic. His wavy hair bounced as he shook his head and gesticulated. "To think that I've postponed and refused so many proposals just to finish work in here! I drove my freaking career into a wall because I had no time to talk to other conductors or orchestras! I'm a goddamn multiple-awarded composer and you made me rewrite stupid ditties because you thought they were too this or too that! You don't even have a fucking clue how to read the portative, what the hell do you know about compositions?!"

"You should be thankful I didn't expose you, Sammy," Joey threatened, seemingly forgetting that they were not alone. "How many conductors or orchestras would've talked to you if they knew what you are? Don't think I didn't catch wind of your night-time activities, you faggot poof!"

Sammy's ear tips turned into angry red and his eyes squinted into slits. He would have ripped the other man's jaw out of its articulations if his forearm hadn't been caught by Norman, who darted after the infuriated composer right before he did something he might regret. Or possibly not, but the blood would have surely stained his shirt and it was difficult to wash it out of the fabric.

"Now, now, Mister Drew," the far taller man intervened, voice so gruff it could peel flesh off the bones, "let's not call each other names, shall we?" He gently lowered his partner's wrist, who was still glaring daggers at their boss.

For the first time since he had showed up in front of his employees, Joey seemed startled. "Norman, I don't think you're in any position-"

"I don't think you're in any position right now either, Mister Drew," Polk continued politely, so composed it was terrifying. He might have lacked Tom's burly mass, though he compensated for it with respectable height and strong limbs. Although, in this case, it was not his stature that impressed, but the way he looked the man in the eye, so coldly and impersonally, like he was reminding him he would have no problem to extract the soul out of him with his bare fists. It determined the bombastic Mister Drew to take a hasty step back.

"Henry," Norman told without shifting his icy stare, "I believe you said somethin' about talkin' to an old friend. I says you do that. We're gonna wait for you right here, you just take your time."

"Give us a call if there's any problem," Thomas added, nodding to the projectionist. Standing between the two men, Sammy retreated into himself and crossed his arms over his chest, his edges even more cutting than before.

Henry did not know what to say, left without words after the tense exchange. But why would he be surprised, as he had just witnessed the frustration of one who had put an axe into another one's skull like it was made of butter, of one who had had no problem to knock him out with a dustpan and leave him to die, and of another who had swatted anything that irked him like flies and then went on about his business like he had done nothing.

As he had once relayed to Sammy, he was lucky that he was on their good side.

He casted a swift glance at Susie and Allison, who were watching him indulgently. Allison encouraged him with the nod of her head, directing him towards the studio's owner, whose feet were pinned to the floor.

"Let's have a chat, you and me, Joey," Henry said, taking his old-time friend by the shoulders and steering him towards the man's office. "You have a lot of explaining to do."

Joey remained paralysed in his spot, leaning on his black cane. His face was tainted by regrets, deeply etched into his forehead. Among the young faces of the others, he looked so old.

Everyone was free of their past burdens, but not him. His sins were only his to grit his bones.

Henry looked at his friend. Words were bubbling in Joey's throat, so difficult to exteriorise. Even after all the pain that man had caused, after all the tragedy his idealistic dreams had wrought, he could not just abandon him. His pal needed help, someone to guide him.

On the spot, Henry Stein decided that he had to return to the studio as an employee, to point things into a normal direction. But that time, on his terms, not on Joey's. He would never let himself be parted from his family like before.

He nudged Drew to move, but his feet were still rooted to the flooring.

"I need to apologise to all of you," Joey said, his voice murky and devoid of its usual faked cheeriness. There was no need for it, nor for the deceive it sugar-coated. It would not work on those people who had experienced his lies in their vilest form. "I'm sorry for what I've done."

Susie snorted loudly. In the past hour, she had gone from ecstatic for being restored into her body, to hurt for seeing her beau with someone else. Now, she was enraged. "Sorry? Mister Drew, you should be ashamed of yourself, not sorry."

"Ah, Susie," Sammy spoke placidly, "but you needn't worry. We'll all be sure he feels absolutely disgusted of himself. After all, we are the living proof of how his dreams do come to life and how they haunt one's soul until the body becomes a shallow vessel and there's only dust inside the chest."

Henry felt Joey's shoulders clench under his palm. Sammy delivered his statement in such a frigid tone that it made everyone's teeth clatter.

"And do you know what will be the most beautiful thing, Susie," the composer continued, tilting his head with irony. "It's that we'll be the ones dictating his every breath. How, you may ask? Oh, but that's simple. Because, dear Joey," he intoned, voice getting even lower as he took a step forward, this time without being stopped by Norman, "if you want a semblance of peace, you will listen to our demands. You will pluck your head out of your ass when we say that something needs more time. You won't be replacing employees because you think they don't fit your agenda without checking with the department heads first, and you won't be making any modifications just because you feel like pissing someone off. You won't be installing infernal contraptions that we don't need, and you will stop using people as dreams fodder."

Joey regarded the approaching man with frozen fright.

Sammy's mouth curled up into a cruel smirk. "And you also know what you will do, dear Joey? You will restore our creative rights if you don't want a process of hellish proportions, because I for one am not going to postpone any other collaboration because you think you have slaves. And most importantly, you will mind your fucking business, or I'll make your every single muscle twitch very much mine." He tilted his head innocently, although the look in his eyes was telling a very different story. "You might ask, how? Well, dearest Joey Drew, in case you didn't check, my family has been into magistracy and finances for entire generations, and no matter how much shit we throw at each other, once one attacks one of us, we stick together like scum to the bottom of a shoe. And do you know the funny thing about scum stuck to the bottom of a shoe, Joey?" His smile turned feral. "Even after it's gone, the stench is still there. Imbued into the soles, never to leave it. So you better behave, my dear Joey. Just a friendly advice."

Drew swallowed drily. He nodded.

"Smart decision, Joey, very smart," Sammy mockingly praised him. Resting his case, he took a few steps back, returning by Norman's side. The projectionist gave him a look filled with pride, delighted to see the good old flame reignited in his partner's hazel eyes that were no longer glinting green, but bloody red.

As merely a passerby, Henry believed Sammy's promise. Not too long ago, he had been set on ending his own life if he hadn't found his lover, so he didn't think it would be much of an issue for him to stump over one's neck just because he got it into his head. That one walked the distance for what he wanted.

And if he did not wish to experience that bloodbath right in front of him, he really should take Joey to talk to him right away.

Not that the man was reluctant to move anymore. He walked just fine to his office, as far away from the disgruntled employees as he could.

XXXXX

Eventually, Henry finished interrogating Joey about what he had done to bring them into such an absurd situation and how he had tried to restore the order by calling his friend back to the studio. Drew explained his reasoning to the height of his capabilities, providing vast details to every single aspect of his plans – probably, in the fear of having them extracted along with his blood vessels if he did not tell the whole story – and Stein did his best not to hit his old friend.

He could not believe what he was hearing. The entire thought process behind the creation of the Ink Machine and the living cartoons had been well-meant, certainly, but the execution, the lies and crimes that spiralled from it, had been absolutely unhinged. Theoretically, the experiment had been a stroke of geniality, but in practice... they both knew how well it had worked. The occults and the technology, all mixed together in a deranged mesh, had no place in an animation studio.

The other escapees listened to their conversation from the hallway, providing a semblance of intimacy to the studio's owner and the cartoonist. Drew's office door was opened anyway, and they spoke loudly enough to be heard from the other rooms. It was for the best, so they could get the backstory from the source without feeling the urge to strangle him.

They eventually reunited in the office's reception in the most uncomfortable silence. Joey made a new attempt to apologise, but he was cut off instantly by each of the employees, who all agreed that they wanted to see actions, and definitely not hollow self-flagellation. They were getting no satisfaction from seeing the man beating himself, they wanted to be the ones holding the whip.

Without prolonging the discomfort, they decided they would all return to work on Monday, when they would drastically change the studio's conduit. Henry promised to return as head animator, as long as he was given free reign over the projects and allowed to respect a schedule, without doing overtime when it was not needed. He asked for more paid leave from work for everyone, especially in case of illness or other debilitating accidents, demands to which Joey reluctantly agreed.

Sammy requested to have both of his voice actresses back and reinstated the threat of suing both the studio and Joey if he was not awarded his creative rights back. Naturally, Drew signed the ownership back to the composer faster than he could actually write, and Susie and Allison shook hands for a fruitful collaboration together.

Thomas Connor also demanded to be allowed to make repairs to every single defective part of the studio, reiterating the many hazards he had observed over the years of developing the Ink Machine, and Drew was spared no complaints regarding that essential petition. Pleased, the engineer vouched to assemble a team during the following week, so they could get straight to renovating, since they had the required funds, as they were no longer wasting money on 'side projects'. He promised to start with the Music Department so they could minimise the noise that could affect their daily business. Both Lawrence and Fain welcomed the idea, given they already possessed the general concept for what they would compose for almost three years from then on. They could get started with remembering the songs in another wing of the studio before Connor was done with their department and they could resume recording.

Not fully confident of the outcome, Buddy inquired if he could continue working as a gofer for the studio's departments, due to the better pay than the one he earned from Mister Schwartz, who was, at that point in time, his employer. After his supplication was granted, he shyly asked Henry if it was possible to watch him drawing from time to time, so he could learn more techniques. Stein smiled and suggested teaching him the said techniques in their spare time, as free private lessons. Young Daniel did not know how to thank the kind cartoonist.

The only one who did not make any requests was Norman, who patiently listened to the others negotiating their terms and provided no intervention of his own whatsoever. He did not think he was entitled to ask for anything, given the many problems that the people around him had. His work had never been hindered by anyone, as he, more often than not, operated alone or was provided with instructions ahead of time. Maybe his workload was oftentimes excessive, given he was doing much more than merely his official attributions, but he reckoned he could live that. He could continue editing and correcting scenes or faulty tapes, tasks that were nowhere near what his job actually meant. He had always enjoyed inspecting film reels anyway, so why bother picking on it?

However, when everyone else was done with their applications and complaints, all eyes turned to the quiet projectionist, who in turn stared at them. "What?" he made and crossed his arms automatically.

"Don't you have anything to add, Norman?" Henry queried with a little smile. "We're trying to correct the wrongs, maybe you'd noticed other things than what was already said? I'm sure Joey will find a way to appeal to whatever demands you might have," he continued amiably as he squinted his eyes at his friend, who nodded compulsively.

Norman sketched a misplaced grimace and shook his head. "Nah, all's good," he croaked thickly, his voice rough after not talking for so long.

"Are you sure?"

"A-yuh, very sure, Stein," he retorted uneasily.

"Actually," Sammy intervened without being addressed, "I have a demand on his behalf. Joey, you'd better give him a raise."

Polk lifted a hand. "Nah, that ain't necessary, I'm just doin' my job, I'm fine with what I earn."

"And I'm not," the composer snapped. "How many times have you worked until midnight? And from those, how often was it because of your actual attributions, and not due to helping the other departments because we don't have enough staff?"

Jack rubbed his nape. "I hate saying this, but Sammy's got a point, Norman. Um, I don't know how many recordings we would've done if it wasn't for you, and I remember more than a few times when I stayed with you in the projection booth during rehearsals and you were fixing tapes. And not only that, you helped us with the sound on some occasions, you surely remember when we had no sound technician and you assisted us."

"I was just helpin', nothin' much. Y'all would be better off with a raise, not me."

"I think we could work something out that would reward your efforts," Joey spoke before things escalated. He figured that the lenient approach was the best with the others, as there was no way in which he could get out of the mess he had created without sacrificing certain old values. Not if he wanted to keep his head on top of his shoulders, anyway. "Given that you continue assisting with the extra duties, I don't see why we don't give you a bonus."

"And change his job's framework," Sammy added.

"And that, of course," Drew agreed hastily, the prospect of a legal process looming over his head. "I'll modify your contract accordingly on Monday, when I deal with the others', too."

"Lovely," Lawrence stated placidly. "And do expect a lawyer to assist you on that, by the way," he continued, enjoying the way Joey swallowed air.

Allison smiled and patted Norman's arm. "Congratulations for your promotion, Norman," she told him, and he looked at her with the most confused expression he had probably ever had.

XXXXX

Norman snuggled his nose under his thick, red scarf, enjoying the warmth it provided. He sat on a ventilation shaft, passing time on the studio's rooftops with Sammy. Both were bundled in their coats that had conveniently waited for them in their respective offices. After they had resided for years inside a cartoon world, the fact that they had found warm clothes at the studio, on a day none of them would have normally gone to work, did not even phase them. They called it small mercy and terrific luck, and left it at that.

The tall man looked ahead. Steam was coming up from the street underneath, where the temperature was a bit higher. It was quiet, being this close to the sky, and it was such a wonderful sensation to feel the wind and coldness stinging his face. And having a face, as a matter of fact. Simply marvellous.

"To think that Joey actually believed it was a good idea to bring a cartoon character to life," Sammy mused absently, twirling the cigarette that he was holding between his forefinger and thumb and getting ash all over him. He looked down at his lap and cringed, quickly swatting the grey ashes that were swirling lazily over his coat's hems. "I mean, you create a thing, call it an abomination, and then lock it up because maybe it will understand it has to behave nicely. I'm not a behaviourism expert, but that sort of treatment is bound to create a mindless monster, don't you think? And that ink, ugh, it makes my skin crawl to remember that vile, slimy goo. He worked a bit on it, he said. Ha! What was he even thinking?"

The projectionist straightened his neck again, resurfacing from underneath his big scarf. "I suspect he didn't think about it at all. The sole prospect of doin' it was enough to set things into motion."

"Yes, but kill people to animate some cartoon characters? Seriously, how okay does that sound to you?"

"That's when things had gotten outta hand."

"Mm, say that again. I haven't noticed it," Sammy grumbled sarcastically.

"Way I see things, dove, you were the first real victim of his schemes, y'know, kinda like an unexpected variable. That, an' how Buddy accidentally set that Demon free. I hope the kid's gonna make better judgement on whom to trust to push'im around, 'cause that girl, Dot, steered him right into a disaster. But she won't remember it, once she comes here to get a job, will she?"

"Perhaps it's for the best."

"Maybe." He looked down at his knees, then turned his head to Sammy. "I believe Susie when she says she's done the transition willingly. She was desperate to be her character again, after she'd been replaced."

Sammy took a drag from the cigarette. His sigh was filled with smoke. "Well, she was certainly glad to be cast as Alice again. Allison was very kind about it."

"You sure dodged that bullet, Lawrence," Norman commented. He finally lit the cigarette he had been playing with. He inhaled the smoke, glad to feel its bitterness after such a long time of not tasting anything. He wondered if he had even had a proper head, under the projector, or if his skull had been cooked up from an amorphous mass of ink lubricating some circuits. "But you're gonna have one helluva time workin' with the both of'em. Especially your lil' Miss Campbell. She might've understood the nature of her sackin', but she's not gonna forgive you so easily for not tellin' her, even if it was an accident."

"Don't remind me."

"Oh, I won't have to. She's gonna do that. And Allison, too. She's a fierce one, never thought I'd think that of her. She's such a polite woman, but I guess givin' a polite woman a sword s'bound to change one's opinion about her."

Sammy chuckled. "Yeah, they will definitely breathe down my back from now on." He rubbed his forehead. "Frankly, I can't believe we actually accepted to continue working here."

"Have anywhere else to go, Mister Genius Composer?"

"Maybe, maybe not. I'm kind of tempted by the salary here, excuse me for being materialistic in this shit economy. But with Henry around, things will probably be different. It's high time artists are allowed to do their job in here and someone has a hand on Joey. And I actually like my work, I always have variety. The real creative work is done in the leisure time, anyway. And really, it's good to test different genres. Nothing has the time to go stale. I already have a few new ideas, I'll have to write them down when I get home. You know, I think we'll be quite prosperous once we're let to see to our own devices, without useless modifications. We know how to work on tight schedules, after all."

"You sure do."

"Hey, you too. You really deserved that promotion, it was long overdue. I can't do the synching alone, I hope you're aware of that. You help me a great deal, with all the things that you do with the images, sounds and all of that. I have no technical bone in me, you know I'm lost when it gets to starting up a machine."

Norman simply nodded, cocking his head to the side. Indeed, Sammy's technical expertise had nothing to do with every-day practical abilities, and definitely not with something that implied the use of electric current or had mechanical wheels. No matter how masterfully he could restore a defective piano or change the hair on a violin bow, the musician had no idea how to replace a light bulb. He smiled, remembering how awed the conductor had been when he had shown him that the electrical panel could be switched on and off. Sammy had spent an entire week without light in the kitchen, absolutely certain it had something to do with the wires, before Norman took pity on him and verified the circuit breakers.

A fat pigeon landed in front of them and hopped towards the steam rising from the ventilation shaft they were sitting on.

"Hey, look who came to get warm. It's your pal," Sammy nudged Norman with the tip of his nose.

"My pal, the pigeon? A'right, he looks like a nice fella."

The plump bird looked at them and, after deeming them safe, it nestled its head onto its body to preserve heat.

"Very nice, yes. And has almost no grey in his plumage."

"Since y'all so observant, ostrich, you might'ave noticed that since we've been on, how to put it... friendlier terms, I've been gettin' more greys."

The composer scoffed. "Huh? What, are you saying I am the one giving you grey hairs, now?"

Norman turned to look at his friend. "Na-ah, I says nothin'. I thought it was obvious."

"Sod off, Polk," Sammy mumbled and gave him a sideways glance, in spite of being unable to keep his smirk off his face. Being in the range of Norman's good eye, like he tried to stay when they were together, his little grimace did not go unnoticed. With a far bolder smile, Norman caught him by the shoulders and pulled him closer.

Making himself smaller, Sammy slid a hand behind the other's back and leaned his head on his chest. He toadied around when he felt a kiss being pressed on top of his head. "Look at us, angel," he said. "We've been trapped in this place for years and we still dally around here."

"Nah, it's a big difference."

"How so?"

"We can leave anytime. We can see the outer world, now, feel it bustlin' all around us. It ain't all dark and muddled anymore. I dunno about you, dove, but I missed all this."

"It must have been very unpleasant to have that thing over your head," Sammy guessed, another cloud of smoke seeping through his lips. He peeked down at the lit stub, about to go out. If he did not crush it soon, it would burn his fingers.

"Unpleasant it's a nice word. T'was very heavy."

"I am sorry."

"No, you ain't," Norman said, poking him with his chin. "But that's alright, Sammy."

"Yeah... all is alright now, isn't it?"

Norman placed a smooch on his cold forehead, making Sammy chortle. "Of course, goldfinch. An', look on the bright side, you're gonna have more time for your side compositions, since you already know what you wanna do for the cartoons. And since Joey's gonna graciously modify your contract so everything you write belongs to you, you're gonna have the green light to work with other conductors. Y'know, make your works known in the concert halls, maybe even abroad."

"That would be swell," Sammy trailed dreamily. "Do you think they'll be appreciated?"

"Samuel, you're an orchestra composer at core, don't doubt yourself. I've listened to enough of your pieces to know they're somethin' else. Somethin' grand."

Sammy exhaled. He finally crushed the burnt cigarette tip and put it next to him, to throw it away later. "Yes, I know I'm brilliant."

"Mhm."

"Thank you," he said, looking up at Norman. "I don't deserve any of it, after what I've done." He breathed in sharply. "To you." He lit another cigarette, blankly staring into space. "You should know about it, to- to be able to make your own decision, that is. You should know what I've done to you."

Norman blew out the smoke he had inhaled before speaking, his visage completely unimpressed. "What, nearly cuttin' my head off? Don't stress over it, Sammy, you're gonna get wrinkles. If you want any, I can burrow you some of mine, though. Free of charge, special offer 'cause I know you."

The composer took a stand back. "You... knew."

"'Course I knew, duckling. I remembered it, same time as you, down in the Film Vault. Get your mind outta the gutter, you really thought I'm gonna push you off the building for that little?"

"That little?" Sammy asked, gasping. "I killed you!"

"An' I'm alive now, thanks to whatever hocus-pocus we've managed to do to the beast in the machine. You weren't yourself, magpie, I know you ain't like that. My Sammy's got the worst fightin' skills."

"How dare you, I have perfectly fine skills, thank you very much."

"I ain't sayin' you can't handle a dustpan, dove, I heard you've knocked up Henry real fine with one. I'm sayin' that you're more talk than bite."

"Oh, really."

"Now that I say it, I guess I'm kinda wrong. You ain't got teeth in your mouth, you bat, you've got fangs."

Sammy snorted. He put the nicotine stick between his lips and dragged from it, shielding his sweet smile. "Idiot," he mumbled. He buried his nose in Norman's red, fluffy scarf. "My idiot. I'm so glad to have you back."

A speck of snow fell on the composer's hair, getting tangled in his golden curls. The sky was still over them and silence was all around, the snow packed on the streets below muffling the usual hustle. They could only hear their breaths turning into vapours in the cold air and their heart beating rhythmically under their heavy clothes.

The composer snuggled into his partner's side. "We'll have to be careful, you know."

"'Course we will. Joey's jus' a stuck up, he ain't got no leverage on you. He pulled that one thing he had at hand on you. Don't worry."

"Hm, you're right."

"Right. An', frankly, after the little stunt you've pulled on him, I don't think he even wanna think about crossin' you, not to mention tryin' it."

"He'd better," Sammy retorted. "I wasn't joking, you know. I have no problem to get him to the rock bottom. I don't have a good situation with my father, but I know he would wipe the High Court's floors with that asshole if he knew the shit he'd gotten me into, and my mother would make a mess of his image if she began talking to her friends in the press. I know my uncle would definitely call his goons on him to check his blood pressure, and my aunt would stick her heels into his eyes and swear on the Constitution she had seen him tripping on a stair. No one makes a fool out of our family."

Norman gave him an impressed look. "You sure don't mess around when someone prods on your better nature, parrot."

"No," Sammy agreed. "So you'd better watch out if you upset me, Mister."

"I'll be sure to watch my back, duck," the projectionist assured him. "So, since I know the terrible fate that awaits me if I unleash your wrath upon me, what do you wanna do today, before we freeze up here?"

A chuckle erupted from Sammy's chest. "Let's go Nancy's. And before you call me a sentimental sap for wanting to go to the one place we've managed to find opened the first time we've gone out, I'm dying for one of her pies. So shut up. And it's on me."

Norman lifted a hand up. "I ain't sayin' a thing."

"Good. Keep doing that."

Another moment of silence went between them. Norman still had his arm around Sammy's shoulders, lightly rubbing his arm to keep it warm. He patiently waited for the other man to say what he wanted, because it was obvious that he was not done talking.

The musician snuggled better into his clothes. "Norman, I wanted to ask you something long before this mess happened. You were always making trips from one side of the city to another, barely went to your place as it was. And it got me thinking, you know."

Norman smiled. "Why, Lawrence, are you suddenly preoccupied with my travellin' expenses?"

"No, you moron, of course not. I just thought that, maybe, you might want to move in to my house."

"That's gonna be complicated, Sammy. Especially at work. I don't want somethin' like this to jeopardize your career, if things get out."

Sammy's mouth turned taut. "Yes, of course. You're right. Forget the question."

Extracting his extended arm, Norman rotated the far lighter man around, so they were facing each other. "Sammy, I don't know where you're holdin' your head, but it ain't on the shoulders, I can tell that much. T'was just me, makin' sure you thought it through."

"You mean you actually want to move in with me?"

The taller man put his index finger on Sammy's forehead, pushing it lightly. "Yes, you finch, I wanna move in with you. Hell, I'd even like spendin' my life with you, if you'll have me. I love you, Sammy, but you gotta understand what it'll mean on the long run. I can't offer you much, and it might not be worth your effort."

"I know what you can offer me, and it's the world to me," the composer spoke, pressing a cold hand on his partner's cheek. "And if that's not worth it, then nothing is. You are my heart, angel. I want to have my heart with me always, close to my chest." He lightly kissed his lips. "If there's any problem, we can say I've rented out to you. It's a big place, I have more bedrooms. And who the hell cares, anyways? After you have nearly twisted Joey's neck for talking down on me, I have all the confidence that there won't be any issues."

"Let's not get that far."

"What do you mean, honey? You wouldn't have made some work on his face, if he kept on talking filth to me?"

"I'd've started with the teeth, finished with the smaller bones and let you crush what was left of his skull after I was done," Norman casually said, almost smiling. He gently kissed Sammy's hairline, making him giddy.

"I know you would have. I would have liked seeing it, actually. Pity there were so many around, especially the kid. I don't want to mortify him even more than I've already done."

"Right, you murderous hen," Norman made with a chuckle. "Let's go get those pies you want. Then I gotta head over to my place, I need to pick up some clothes before goin' home."

Sammy's smile broadened on his face when he heard that his house had become their home. All that madness, the hurt, the sacrifices, everything had led to a place he could finally call home, shared with the one who made him whole. His eyes were stinging, perhaps from the cold, probably from something else, and he wrapped his arms around the projectionist's neck again.

"I've fallen for a sheep," he whispered tenderly, right before kissing his beloved squarely, without any inhibition or care. He tasted cold bitter smoke on their lips and it was intoxicating, reminding him of the long nights spent together. Lifting a hip from its warm spot on the ventilation shaft, he put a leg over Norman's thigh, bringing him closer and deepening their kiss. When their lips departed, he grinned with a glint in his light eyes. "Seriously thinking he's going to need clothes tonight. You're a smart man, Polk, until you aren't anymore." He placed a frugal smacker on his cheek and got up, extending his hand to the taller man. "Come along, angel, you have to order the chocolate pie for me, the cheese pie... oh, yes, and the cherry pie. Maybe pumpkin and cinnamon if Nancy baked that one, too. And you can take that dreadful thing with spinach and kidney that you like, ugh."

As he was collecting the extinguished cigarette buds into the tobacco case, Norman had to pause for a moment to look up. "Why on Earth I'd do that? You order for yourself an' let me choose my dreadful things myself. Don't make me ask for I dunno how many things when it's you who's gonna eat'em."

Sammy rolled his eyes, already having opened the trap door leading back to the relative warmth of the studio and waiting for Norman to follow him. "Yes, but I'm not going to order them all! I will ask nicely for an apple pie. And I want a chicken pie, don't forget to say that, too."

"So, I've gotta take six or seven things, have the waitress look at me all strangely again because how the hell is just one person eatin' that much, and then watch you jumpin' over the table to take everythin's in front of me? Nah, I don't think so, Lawrence. Not this time around, nightingale, it's the middle of the day and there's gonna be other people besides us."

Sammy crossed him arms, walking down the stairs to the lower level. Norman caught up with him and took him by the arm. "Don't be sour, partridge, or you're gonna land in one of those pies you're cravin'. We can instead act like civilised adults and ask for two plates and for our orders to be put in the middle of the table. I swear, you're such a caveman at times."

"I haven't eaten in... would it be eighteen years? Twenty? Twenty-five? I don't for know how long we've been lost in limbo."

Norman shook his head. "That ain't no excuse! Christ, an' they say I was raised at a farm. If my Mamma'd hear what stupid things you're sayin', she'd give me a whoopin' for fornicatin' with the likes of you. And especially for that."

Sammy's eyes lit up. "She'd give you a whooping? When can I meet her?"

"Jesus, you're unnervin'," Norman said, but he was smiling. Just before they left the studio and got into the street, before they had to depart from each other and walk with some distance between them, they shared a sweet kiss, filled with humour.

"Sure you're gonna meet everyone, if you wanna," Norman promised, looking around the white boulevard and the partially cleared alleys. "An' I'm not gonna be hearin' anything for a week after the talkin' to I'm gonna get, bringin' a white man with me instead of some nice black lady. Or at least mixed races, like me. And a man with better hair than my sisters, no less. Damn, I'm gonna turn deaf between y'all yappin' your mouths at me."

"Well," Sammy trailed on, his smirk dibbing suggestively. "I can't help with the skin colour or the hair, but with the, you know, lady part-"

"Oh, shut it, Lawrence," Norman quickly cut his speech, already anticipating whatever filth was going through the composer's mind. "We're gettin' pies and not discussin' somethin' like that outside."

Sammy smirked and buried his nose in his posh wool scarf. "Prude ass."

They both snorted, knowing well that was not the case for either of them, but they couldn't exactly politely talk about that on the street.

"Hey, Norman?" Sammy asked as they entered a snowy park. "Do you think we were mourned?"

Polk regarded him with a sad little smile. "We ain't never gonna find out."

"Hm. Yes, I suppose you're right. But I like to think we were missed by someone."

"I'm sure we were."

The composer tugged his coat closer around him. "I think I'll try to get back in touch with my parents. I have plenty of things to rub into my father's face, after all, so why not do it right away? I should start writing them down so I don't forget anything." He absently rubbed his elbow. "Huh, that's actually an idea."

"An' that's why you're gonna be forever young, you crow," Norman jested.

"Oh, please, you'll understand what I mean when you meet him and my mother. If you think your folks are going to give you an earful for showing up with me at their doorstep, wait to see my lovely genitors' reaction. Actually, I think I will tape record it, to listen to it whenever I feel like the day is too slow."

Norman's eyebrows were crooked suspiciously. "Um, okay?"

"My uncle and aunt will love you, I think," Sammy continued dreamily. He kicked a mound of snow with the tip of his shoe. "My uncle Robert has always said that the only thing he regrets in life is that he has never slept with a man. That always earns him one over the head from my aunt, but eh. I think he'll be jealous, actually. Oh, yes, why haven't I introduced you to him before? He owns a winery among other things, he'll adore getting you drunk."

"What on Earth's wrong with your family, Lawrence," Norman commented. "What did I get myself into this time," he wondered out loud, though his voice did not lack the amused undertone. "Almost three years of goin' out with you an' I still discover new things. You're such an onion, puffin."

"Oh, please, if I were an onion, you would have started crying whenever I got undressed."

"Well, dove, from now on, I'm gonna make sure to sob harder with every layer you shed. And, God help me, I'd better prepare the handkerchiefs, 'cause you've got a thousand clothes sometimes."

"Tat, tat, what happened to not discussing it in public," Sammy sassed. They exited the park, getting closer to their destination. There were very few people on the street and no one paid them any heed, all too preoccupied with remaining on their feet and not slipping on ice.

As they were crossing a junction, a light bulb went on inside Sammy's head. "Norman, do you realise we've been together for almost three years already?"

"A-yuh, I just said that."

"Now, we're practically in a moment when we weren't even dating. We first went out much later in the year. No, actually, it would have been next year... Jesus."

"That sounds about right."

Lawrence pushed his hands into his coat's pockets. "Since we're stuck with each other now, how are we going to count the years? This time turning is such a mess." He stuck his nose out from his argyle scarf. "Of course, I'm grateful to be alive and everything, but, you know. Counting is a bitch."

"A-yuh, Lord forbid you used your head for that," Norman responded, trying to sound as unaffected as he could, despite having his stomach doing excited flips at the knowledge that Sammy was contemplating spending years together. "It ain't that hard, goose. You just gotta add one every time the date repeats in the calendar."

Biting the inside of his cheek, Sammy pondered his words for a moment. "I was thinking about making it even easier. We could have two anniversaries every year, one beginning the count from three, the other from one. What do you say? We should mark today somehow, it's the first day of returning back to normal, after all, and also, well, the day we decided to live together, right? A good reason to celebrate another year of not smothering each other in sleep, you know."

Norman chuckled. "Sure, I like the sound of that."

"Perfect! This way, I can deal with arranging some decent and proper celebration for this time of the year, and you can plan how we're dangling from some roof or whatever on the other time of the year."

The projectionist clicked the back of his teeth. "Damn, I'm gettin' predictable this early on?"

Sammy stopped in his tracks. "What? I hope you don't literally want to do that, Norman."

Polk put a scandalised hand over his chest. "Me? 'Course not, I ain't gonna dangle from any roof, but did you know how grand it's to listen to an orchestra up from Carnegie Hall's illumination catwalk? That's some mean real-deal acoustics, I'm tellin' you."

The composer gave him a bewildered look as he searched for a proper response. He watched his partner, who looked absolutely dead serious about what he had just said, so he just shook his head. "I suppose I'll find out how grand it is. Because, let's face it, if we buy tickets for anything on that blasted day, we are never going to arrive on time."

"Atta go, birdie, that's the spirit," Norman quipped and they both laughed.

XXXXX

They eventually arrived at Nancy's, the little dinner where they would have visited on their first date over a year from then. The place was exactly as they remembered it, cosy and welcoming. The same lady owner was there, once again recognising Norman as the nice man who always spoke politely to her serving girls, and asked them to have a seat until she brought them some coffee. They did not need to make up some lame excuse this time, as it was the middle of the day, unlike the first time they had gone there together.

As it was sensible, Norman placed a singular order for all that they wanted and asked for two plates and two sets of cutlers. The waitress left them alone with a small smile.

They were seated at the same table as they had on their first outing. From his side of the table, the composer was looking at the still, frozen lake in the distance, now visible through the leafless trees. The ducks had migrated some good months before, due to return once spring brought the vegetation back to life. Only the bouncing pigeons were left to nibble the seeds and bread on the white pavement.

Time passed and darkness crept upon the two men as they strolled through the city's deserted alleys. Finally able to properly communicate, they chatted about this and that, without a set subject, listening to their voices in the serenity of the frozen city and promenading through the parks devoid of their usual fumble.

They were walking home, after so long.

His hand trembling slightly with uncharacteristic emotions, Sammy unlocked the door and opened it widely. He motioned for Norman to enter and closed the door after them, locking it for the night.

Inside the welcoming lobby, nothing was changed. It was the same organised mess of polished shoes and shiny boots, umbrellas and scarves folded on top of the hanger, the same way they were always left at the entrance during winter. It was almost nostalgic to look at the heavy coats dangling neatly from their hangers next to Sammy's ornate house robe that seemed to walk around by itself.

He looked at Norman, who crouched to untie his laces, the way he always did when he came over, making sure not to bring the snow inside and stain the carpets or inflate the hardwood floors. Sammy followed his example, all the while smiling.

It was such a small thing, but it made him incredibly happy. Everything was the same way as he recalled them, the places, the objects, the people's mannerism. It was so little, yet so much after having lost it all.

He was indeed too sentimental at times, but not too often and not with everyone, so that no one would forget he was actually a sour man who snapped at nothings. Appearances had to be kept, and sometimes, certain persons did not deserve to see the softer sides of someone else.

Despite the blurred vision in his damaged blue eye, Norman could still make out the way Sammy's gaze darted from the floor to him, and then to his shoes. It was endearing how the composer still believed he was blind on his right side – he could see shapes quite well, albeit they resembled shadows more than anything else. And Sammy was not subtle by any means, so he had to have poked his eyes out not to see him fretting.

When they straightened their backs, Sammy's face was the epitome of poise and jauntiness. Norman called that bullshit, but whatever.

"Well, we are home," the musician announced as he put his coat on a hanger to dry off the small snowflakes that had accompanied them during their long walk, and folded his green scarf. He took Norman's clothes from his arms, who thanked him, and hanged them next to his.

Norman simpered as he watched the other man arranging their coats. "Right, right, almost forgot," he made, motioning with his head as if he was looking for something. Sammy peered at him with curiosity, still standing where he was.

He was suddenly picked up, legs dangling over Norman's right arm and his back perched against the left one. He loosely wrapped his hands around the man's neck, laughing. "Oh, do put me down!"

Evidently, his half-meant wish was not fulfilled. "Why, I'm walkin' you over the threshold," Norman explained, easily carrying the man in his arms down the hallway that led to the living space. "Or at least, a threshold. Couldn't exactly pick you up from the yard without testin' my ice skatin' skills, could I. I'm gonna have to clear the walkway tomorrow."

"Yes, but why pick me up?"

"Why, do you wanna pick me up? I'd love to see you tryin', Lawrence, if you feel like breakin' your back. Who knows, you might even succeed."

"Picking you up?"

"Nah, breakin' your back."

Sammy snorted, shaking his head. "Thanks for the thought, but I like my back intact."

"'Course you do," Norman said, finally putting the musician down, who still had his arms around his neck.

"Well, let me tell you something, Mister," Sammy whispered languidly. He ran his fingertips down his partner's neck, lightly tapping them against his chest when they reached lower. "I must admit, I like that you walked me over the threshold." He lifted on his toes to look right into the projectionist's animated eyes. "It's our home, now, isn't it? Someone has to be carried over the threshold, even if we are not married."

Norman nodded. "Sure, sure." He smirked deviously. "Hmph, associatin' marriage with you, dove, that's a bold one. I sure pity your poor bride, she ain't gonna suspect what hit'er, oh, no. But, word of advice, canary, pick a woman who can lift you up, 'cause we don't wanna deprive the world of your compositions by breakin' your dainty arms."

Sammy's heels clicked back onto the floor and he looked up at the other's face with a daring grimace. "Oh, so you want to sleep in the garden from day one, don't you."

"Don't you be so dottin' on me, lovebird, you might just give me the wrong impression. An' since y'all so lovin', do I get a blanket, so I don't die from some pneumonia?"

"No, obviously not," the composer retorted, rolling his eyes. "And you're not getting away like that. I plan on snoring you into your grave."

"A-ha, so now you admit to snorin'. Lemme just mark the marvel in the calendar."

"I don't admit to anything, I am only telling you what to expect. Oh, and do expect to be snored in the afterlife, too."

Norman chuckled. "No rest for thy bein’ snored, ey?"

"None, Mister Polk. You'll be sent into the everlasting snoring lands and regret every single choice that led to it."

"Whatever you say, you crackpot," the projectionist cackled. He gazed into Sammy's eyes, the warm hazel shifting into bright green in the dim light. They were both smiling, finally free from the madness they had gone through, able to see their faces and sketch their emotions over the canvases of their skins.

He must have sensed it from the little twitch of the muscles embracing his neck that Sammy would jump up on him. Norman caught him effortlessly, already knowing how to balance him, and straightened to lift him higher. Grinning, Sammy held the man's cheeks within his palms and secured his legs around his waist, trusting he would not be allowed to fall.

"What do you say about living before all that?"

"Not in a hurry to die, me. Been there, done that," Norman commented. "Lemme tell you - it ain't no fun in that."

Sammy squinted his eyes. "It's times like this I am not pleased you have your head back."

"Oh, there's a time when you are?"

"Bad wording," the conductor quickly added, frowning. "No, actually, good wording. No. Oh, just shut up, Norman," he demanded and caught him by the hair, pulling his face towards his. They kissed, without rush, feeling the warm air passing between them.

Sammy's legs slowly slid down his partner's body, socked soles fully touching the floor. He hastily grabbed Norman's turtleneck and pulled him by the collar as they advanced through the house.

In front of the main bedroom's door, Sammy felt himself being spun around and his back hit the wall. He gasped as a strong hand clasped the nape of his head as soon as he missed his footing. Losing all of his patience, he jumped on his tiptoes and grabbed a fistful of Norman's hair, keeping him just a shy speck away from his face. He eyed his lips with a barely concealed stuttered breath as he tightened his grip on the other's rough hair, and pressed their mouths together, opened for exploration.

Their tongues found their familiar rhythm around each other, hungrily sliding past their teeth and entangling wetly. Their hands roamed over their torsos and backs, pulling their upper clothing and discarding them on the floor.

Sammy had no recollection of how he had ended up on the bed, but he did not seek an explanation. He sprawled his legs, one dangling over the edge, and carded his fingers through Norman's ruffled hair, bringing him even closer and breathlessly devouring his mouth.

His mind was clouded with dizziness when they parted. His lips were trembling as guffaws spilt through them. He opened his eyes with a grin, eager to see the heterochromatic irises of his lover, but all that he saw was sudden light shining upon him like a beacon.

His breath caught up in his throat and all feeling in his fingertips was stilled by the fear ravaging his thumping heart. He blinked fast to adjust to the brightness, yet he made out no shape in front of him. His insides coiled, aghast, not understanding why he was no longer seeing Norman, and solely the light blinding him.

"Oh, no, please, not again, no," he moaned out and shut his eyes tightly as his hand darted over the horror-struck line of his mouth.

The taller man appeared after a moment, looking very concerned. He immediately stroked Sammy's cheek, making him reopen his unfocused eyes. "Hey, dove, easy there, shh. I forgot the switch's right next to your head, I'm so sorry," he apologised, pointing to the bedside lamp that was illuminating the dark room. "Lemme just close it, okay? All's fine, shh, just hang on-"

"No, just... leave it on. I want to see you," Sammy requested firmly, passing a hand through the other's dark hair to feel something over his numb fingertips. "I just though... well, I was just being foolish."

"We ain't there, Sammy," Norman told him, knowing what his beloved had thought. Gently, he extracted the hand gripping his hair and put it between their faces. "Open your palm. Do you see? You've got one, two, three, four, five fingers. Right? Five fingers, Sammy. And you've got a nose," he said, leaving a butterfly kiss over it. "And two eyes," he continued, meekly pressing his lips over them. "Whole lotta curls on the head," he laid another kiss and smelled the coolness in the other's wavy locks. He placed a gentle kiss on his slightly agape mouth. "See, lil' bird? It's all you, no ink. Just you an' me, and no ink."

Sammy felt a tear pricking his eye. He nodded, biting his lower lip. "I see you too," he muttered, running his fingertips over Norman's face. "I missed your eyes, my angel. Very much."

"Wanna make me blush, ain't you?"

All tension flew away from the musician's chest as he chuckled. "No, idiot. I'm just glad you're back to normal. Though, it wouldn't have mattered, as long as I had you."

"Mm. Noticed that."

Sammy rolled his eyes in a distraction attempt, highly aware that his cheeks were turning red. "You're a sheep and a moron, you twerp. You're lucky I love you, Heaven knows why."

"Well... gotta be the eyes."

"Obviously," the composer confirmed, shaking his head lightly. "And other things," he added and pressed their lips together again. "Not many things, mind you. Very few things."

Norman chortled breezily. "Don't lemme impose on your puny, little heart, Lawrence. I might catch a cold in there."

"Ungrateful mutt," Sammy retorted and mockingly attempted to push Norman off him, only to be pressed back onto the mattress. Grabbing the larger man by the ears, the composer brought their mouths back together, sets of lips wet against the other, teeth clinking as tongues glided over them.

He took his time, feeling the inside of his mouth, the shiny gums, the slick tongue circling his in a dance with no music. He prodded with his own tongue, as deeply as he could, and it was bitten lightly, more like a scratch, sending shivers down his spine.

Drool slipped past his reddened lips. Sammy took a moment to contemplate the mismatched eyes in front of him. His chest raised and fell irregularly, and his breath stuttered when teeth grazed against his pulsing jugular and bit lower, on the junction of his neck. His fingers carded again through dark locks, simply holding, and a clever tongue lapped around his collarbone and down his sternum. It slid further to the side, down the perked up nipples and the well defined pectorals shuddering under the harsh nips, tensing upwards to follow after the mouth aggressing them.

Norman's teeth mapped the entirety of his pale chest and tainted it with rosebuds. His tongue dipped down the valleys of his partner's flushed belly, muscles coiled under the flat skin. Without halting his circular licks and occasional nibbles that were making the rakish body under him jolt and tremble, he glanced up, at the agape mouth letting out arrested pants and the eyes focusing with intent on him.

He did not feel himself straining against his trousers, he did not acknowledge his hair being pulled in different directions and the sharp nails biting into his scalp. He did not care about himself right then, not when he marvelled at the blooming statuesque skin marred by his tender ministrations and the shining eyes watching him with fervour. He could barely restrain himself, wanting to touch everything, every inch of spotless, heated skin, rejoicing in the lack of ink over it and his ability to experience its warm scent and velvety texture.

Sammy was thrashing around, failing to lay still, his hips jutting and grounding themselves in an attempt to compose himself. He bit his lips hard, impatiently anticipating, seeing the dark head descending lower, down the planes of his abdomen. He felt a dainty peck on his pelvic bones, unintended to leave any marks, but teasing him in wicked ways.

His elbows held his weight as he lifted up to have a better look. He could read the unspoken promise in Norman's mismatched eyes and see his tanned, gaunt cheeks rumpling from a toothy grin. The composer returned the mirth, bursting with incredible happiness.

Hypnotised by the wicked look in his lover's eyes, he barely noticed the moment when his dress pants vanished along with his loosened suspenders, but he did feel the coolness prickling at his burning skin.

In a wave of churning sensations erupting from his very bones, his back instinctively arched and his head hit the pillow, losing sight of his valiant conqueror. He swiftly supported his upper body on his elbows, head swimming akin to a balloon on the surface of a lake. What he glimpsed through his watery eyes was his cock standing up in the air, precariously retained within the confines of smirking lips similar to a dangling cigar. He made out the outline of the pink tongue slowly circling the tinted, blunt tip, feeling the motion rushing through his nerves straight to his toes.

He strained not to squirm and disrupt the lazy motions of the cavity that warmed the gland. Sluggishly, the projectionist slid between his lover's feet, all the while sucking gently on the tip of the dick pulsating inside his mouth. He was sitting just right, with the leaking rod lifted perpendicular on its owner's body, perfectly visible to the conductor.

It was only during those times when Norman made a spectacle of what he did, unlike his usual suspiciously covert daily activities. He made a show of the way his thin lips undulated around the round head and his tongue lapped around, a single drop of fluid coursing deliberately over a pulsing vein.

Sammy had to grab the sheets not to spring off the bed when the mouth nibbling his cock began descending, feeling incredibly ardent against his raging need. A breathy moan escaped past his opened lips as more of his length was covered by the scorching wetness, not stuttering until it had only a bit left before fully enveloping it.

Norman's eyes darted up, catching Sammy's like a flashlight into the face. They had an otherworldly look in them, impish even, and they were glinting with mischief.

Sammy felt it right in the lungs when the head of his cock was suddenly shoved deeper into Norman's throat, all the way until the entirety of the member was trapped inside his mouth. The projectionist was still gazing up at him, eyes hooded by black lashes and bushy eyebrows lowered over them, relentlessly sucking the dick deeper into his throat without moving his head back and having the audacity to have the corners of his lips curled up.

The composer felt so light and depleted of blood in his arms, he was not even sure he was still touching the mattress. His toes clenched and his fingers planted themselves into his tormentor's shoulders, who slowly rose from his crotch, tongue flat against the underside of the cock. The projectionist flashily paraded the inflated hardness around his mouth, hitting the inside of his cheeks as he bobbled up and down, lavishing the dick with attention. Sammy thrust up to meet the pleasurable warmth with unexpected roughness, and his gesture was welcomed with vibrating grunts.

Norman gulped the length down his throat once more, ripping a thrilled shriek from the dazzled artist. Fluidly, he lifted himself on his palms and let the cock fall wetly on his lover's belly, heavy like a hearty slap.

Not even bothering to check on the panting man beneath him, Norman slid his hands under Sammy's buttocks and lifted them up. Pressing a thumb against the perineum, he departed the fleshy mounds and drew a straight lick over the puckered arsehole that was revealed.

"Oh, God," Sammy breathed out, a hand darting to his forehead and another back into Norman's hair. He parted his legs wider, still held up by the arms supporting him, and he moaned whorishly as a pointy tongue thrust into his clenched hole.

'Lenses can't do that', he mindlessly thought, and screamed as a nose poked under his testes and opened teeth bit into his spread bottom, that sly tongue getting impossibly deep into his rectum and wiggling its way around. It was licking him from the inside, prodding him in places no sensible man should be touched. But Samuel Lawrence was not exactly a reasonable man to begin with. And right then, he had no respectable notion in his head, invaded by the heady clouds of unrestrained lust.

Fingertips pushed into the hard bums that were held apart by cupping palms. Norman lacked all decency as he lapped the rosy hole like a dog drinking water, thoroughly enjoying the way the flesh quivered on his tongue and how red it was getting. The composer's incoherent speech was completely debauched, hardly making any sense once his dick was grabbed and rubbed lazily, like it was a shoe being shined. The tongue left him for the inside of his thighs when a finger began prodding into his gaping ass, and Sammy welcomed it with a great, fanged smile. That was all that he could do, groan and grin and stare at the man servicing him and turning him into dough.

He barely registered when Norman climbed back up over him and kissed him deeply, three of his fingers buried knuckle-deep into his arse and thrusting inside with trained precision. Sammy was trembling like a leaf, skin too hot, and his eyes were watery from strain.

He kissed Norman with abandon, absolutely bewitched by that mouth that had transformed him into a leaking mush and the hand rubbing his prostate from within his body.

He opened his eyes with difficulty and pressed a delicate hand on Norman's flushed chest and with the other, he grabbed his crotch. The man was so concentrated on rendering him breathless that he had forgotten about himself, tenting painfully against the confines of his clothes and breathing hard through the nose.

Sammy pushed him on his back, and that time, the projectionist did not pose any objections. The composer trailed a hand over his face, over the tanned skin that had gained slight lines ahead of its time. He kissed every spot on the man's visage and neck, pecked his strong chest and jutting hips. He gripped the hems of his trousers and brought them down his legs, along with the underclothes, leaving him hard and twitching against his abdomen.

He spit on the thick cock and swallowed it up, wetting it up nicely and filthily slurping around it. He moaned as he did so, sounding like a nightingale even when he was chocking on a dick. With a devilish look in his eyes, he stopped what he was doing and grabbed the erect member, giving it a harsh squeeze. He steadied it into place as he spread his legs on each side of Norman's hips. Grabbing him by the hair, making sure he was looking at him, Sammy slid down the hard length with his mouth widely opened.

His buttocks were grabbed by reliable hands, holding him as he impaled himself, not stopping for a moment to adjust. The friction burned him, but he could not stop grinning, closing his eyes at the rawness of skin sliding against skin, feeling he could fly on top of his beloved.

Their bodies grew closer until they were pressed against each other. Suavely, like a bow against a violin's neck, Sammy bent to place a chaste kiss on his beloved's slightly ajar lips. "My dear heart," he whispered and smiled indulgently, his brilliant eyes glinting with love.

Despite their current situation, the hand that cupped his cheek was gentle and warm like an embrace. Norman was mirroring his smile. "My lil' goldfinch," he rasped tenderly.

Sammy bit the inside of his cheek and looked at the pupils of his partner, the one in the damaged blue eye only partially dilated and creamy white, and the one in his good one so blown-out and dark it could have been made of ink. His straight black hair was pulled back due to laying on the back, and, in spite of how young the man was, some stray grey strands gleamed in the lamp light. He ran his fingertips though that coarse hair, loving the feel of it and the entirety of his sweetheart.

Simpering still, Sammy began moving, up and down, hips undulating under rough palms.

His bottom was grabbed and the pace picked up a notch, powerful thighs thrusting upwards and eager ones meeting them half-way with a slap.

Hopping on that hard cock, nerves electrified with yearning, the composer sang his notes of desire to the enraptured audience that sipped on every sound he produced. Norman was drunk from it, in ways no alcohol could ever inebriate him, and he was completely addicted to the pliant body of his loud lover.

He turned them around, once again on top of the musician, who hooked a leg over his shoulder and left himself prey to whatever the man wanted to do to him. The projectionist bit his raised knee, making the feverish muscles spasm, and slammed his hips hard into Sammy, who pulled him inside like a well-worn glove.

His thrusts were precise, not too fast, but hard enough to make Sammy's teeth rattle. The body that he was diving into was hitching and shuddering at each snappish jab, and hands searched for purchase everywhere around his skin. At some point the musician's long fingers grabbed his round buttocks, and he modified the angle of his prods, making the composer's voice hit shrilling notes as he abused his prostate with dead-on shoves.

The overbearing heat was drawing him in, the screams of want were smothering him under their intensity, hands were blindly feeling him up and lips were kissing whatever skin they could touch. Gripping Sammy's wavy golden locks, Norman started pounding into him, almost vengefully smacking their bodies together until they bruised, speeding up and rougher than before. Sammy's legs gave out, falling uselessly on the bed, shouting as he was being used like a ragdoll, the cock inside him burning him and giving him a taste of heaven and hell.

They were both groaning, uncaring of anything but the friction between them, sweat falling off their bodies and muscles rippling from effort. Sammy's back bent backwards as he came spectacularly over their bellies, the sensation of completion reverberating inside all of his fibres and keeping on lighting up with every pistoning inside his sore canal. Norman was ramming into him, biting his shoulder and holding him into place, and Sammy let him chase his need, pulling his hair and slicing his shoulder blades with his nails, mewling from the stimulation.

Kissing him like he was going to suffocate without him, Norman's hips stuttered with one final deep, wrecking thrust, spending himself inside the velvety insides of his lover. Sammy's heart gave a skip and he hugged his man like they were going to fall off a cliff, leaving the imprints of his fingertips on his back as he plunged his tongue into his mouth.

With both their breaths wildly unrestrained, they peered into each other's eyes. Running his hands on the naked body resting atop his, Sammy relaxed, all tension washing off him. He dramatically lifted his arms and captured Norman's head between the insides of his elbows, then wrapped them around his neck. Easily, they caught their breaths, smiling in the crooks of their necks and allowing their limbs to grow heavy and uncooperative.

Knowing that he could accidentally crush the slender man under him, Norman rolled to his side. Sammy followed him, throwing a leg over his waist and entangling his arms around his torso. Shifting around a bit, the projectionist covered them both with a rumpled blanket. He placed a small kiss against the composer's temple, who merely smiled with his eyes closed and snuggled his cold nose into the other's warm skin.

Casting one more glance at the handsome face of his beloved, appreciating its sharp lines that were finally visible after so long, Norman allowed his lids to fall wearily, holding Sammy between his arms.

During the night, he woke up confused, expecting to see some creature lurking in the never-ending sea of dark ink, but all that he saw was Sammy's peaceful expression as he slept. The man was snoring lightly, not very elegantly, but so endearingly that Norman felt his pulse rise from how impossibly happy he was. He looked at him, drooling artlessly over his chest, and knew that was the most precious thing in his life. These little moments when they simply existed, content together in the warm cocoon they had created together.

They were never going to leave the nightmares of the time spent inside the machine behind, but they were not going to stop living because of them. The visions would haunt them every day, but they went forward without looking back. They assured each other that everything was alright, that all was normal again, count fingers and touch each other's faces to remind themselves they were safe.

They resumed their jobs at the studio, where Norman continued to operate and maintain the projection machines and modify reels when it was needed, and Sammy returned to composing his bouncing ditties that adorned Jack's lyrics. In his spare time, he wrote original compositions he presented to fellow musicians and publishers. He was so proud when he was invited to conduct one of the concertos he had composed for a live audience and was acclaimed for his talent by the public and press alike. His works became sought after by other conductors, for both live performances and aired ones, making his name well known to the music scene and not only. At some point, he even began collaborating with the Conservatory as a tutor, then as a professor, exploring his capabilities and sharing from his experience with the students. Sometimes, he honoured the many offers made to him to perform as a guest conductor, the audience getting to experience the vigour of his guidance right before their eyes and for their ears' delight.

In time, Sammy brought more prestigious awards for his creations to the mantelpiece in the living room. Norman had to add new shelves for the ever growing prizes collection, and he was more than glad to do so, tastefully arranging them on the displays he made for them.

Steadily, Sammy's greenhouse gained more inhabitants, most of them hunted down by Norman, who periodically raided all the possible and impossible plant markets in search of leafy gifts for his partner who enjoyed gardening in his spare time. He oftentimes returned home with all sorts of colourful bouquets for Sammy, who invariably lit up when he smelled their sweet scents or touched their velvety petals. They always had fresh flowers in the porcelain vases scattered around the house, right under the many photographs they made together and developed in the closet they had turned into a dark room.

Not only had they acquired new plant pots, but also a vast number of new books for their shelves. Norman spent long hours in the company of the many stories stored on the pages of his precious novels, listening to Sammy playing the piano or muttering to himself as he composed new music pieces. Sometimes, when the composer’s eyes stung and he could barely see anymore, the projectionist read out loud for him, lulling him into the most peaceful sleep.

They went out constantly. Took strolls together under the moonlight, went to the cinema, to the theatre, to the opera and then straight into a pub, discussing about whatever passed through their heads. And always returned home to listen to some music in the dim parlour after too many glasses of wine, and enjoyed each other's presence in all senses and forms.

More by chance than planned, they met each other's families, as it was long overdue. The introductions were just as explosive as they had envisioned them, though they worked everything out. Soon enough, Norman's folks all but adopted Sammy, who took up to talking to the Polk women over the phone for long hours. Norman's nephew and niece from the oldest of the sisters took up to calling the musician ‘uncle’, and Sammy proudly composed them special songs just for them. When the second sister eventually married and had children, her brother and his partner were asked to be the little ones' godfathers, and they accepted.

Of course, they had to keep their relationship secret from most of the people around them, but that had never bothered them. They wore a golden ring around the neck, the thin necklace supporting it perfectly hidden underneath their clothes. It was the closest resemblance they had to being married, but they knew that their souls were intertwined beyond the physical realm. No one could take what they had away from them. Not when they had each other and revelled in each other's company, giving no damns about the outer world that owed them nothing.

They could all do that, shielded from the horrible machinations of the disturbed mind that had almost ruined them, nearly broken their spirits and twisted them into abominable beasts. They had escaped that madness and got to live without the Ink Machine ever being built, no ink poisoning their thoughts and muddling their judgement.

Because, through their memories, brought to the surface by chance or maybe luck, they had done what had been sought as impossible once. Not anymore.

They had set themselves free, and free they remained in their loving embrace.

Never quite matching, but so beautiful together.

And free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da, that’s all, folks! I hope you enjoyed the ride, thank you very much for reading! Please, let me know your thoughts on this chapter and the story as a whole, they mean a lot to me. Thank you again for taking the time to reach this point, and I hope we’ll meet again in another story!  
> Till the next time, bye-bye, everyone!


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